We Were Soldiers
by The Urban Spaceman
Summary: They say that boys go to war, and men come back from it. When Sergeant James Barnes is deployed to the front lines in 1943, he learns that living through war means living in the shadow of death every minute of every day — and that even in the thrall of that dark shadow, hope and love can blossom in the unlikeliest of places.
1. Last Stop, USA

_Foreword: I will attempt to be historically accurate as much as I can, but events will happen in this story which did not happen in the real WWII (one glaring canon example being Hydra, of course). Right now, this story follows MCU canon closely, and is a prequel to my story,_ _'Running To You' (though you don't have to have read that story first). Updates will be fairly frequent, but not scheduled. Feedback is very much appreciated.  
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 _I don_ _'t normally bother with disclaimers, since we all know this is fanfiction, but because this story touches real events/places and draws heavily on info pulled together from several factual/historical sources from which I did my research… "Disclaimer: The bits that belong to Marvel, belong to Marvel. Many places/locations which appear in the story are real, except the ones I made up. All of the original characters, no matter how small their parts, are mine, and are not intended to bear any resemblance to real individuals either living or deceased."_

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We Were Soldiers

 _1\. Last Stop, USA_

To the world at large, it was known as Camp Shanks. The massive, sprawling staging area in Rockland County was the largest camp in the chain belonging to the New York Port of Embarkation. But to Bucky, and the others who'd done their winter training at Camp McCoy, it had another name: Last Stop, USA.

Bucky's first view of it was from the window of the bus that had brought him up from Brooklyn, and his first impression was that it looked uniform and regimental. The wooden barracks were all the same shape, the same size, and laid out in neat rows across several fields into which grey stone-chipped roads had been laid. At a distance, it looked like the whole place was swarming with ants, but as the bus drew closer to its stop, he realised those ants were actually _people._ Soldiers. An enormous, milling throng of them, waiting for the transport ships which would ferry them off to Europe or the Pacific. To adventure, and war.

When the bus pulled up at the top of the winding lane, he grabbed his duffel bag, helmet, gas mask, backpack and bedroll, and hauled it all down the aisle. "Good luck out there, and keep your head down," the driver said to him, as he tried to disembark without dropping everything

"Thanks," he replied, "I will."

He'd already promised his mom, and Mary-Ann, and Janet, _and_ Steve, that he would be careful. He couldn't decide whether his nearest and dearest were natural worriers, or whether they all thought he needed reminding to take care. _Ah, they_ _'re just worriers,_ he thought. Dad and Charlie had worried too, but they'd done it more silently. Mom and his sisters had cried. Steve had said, _'Don't win the war till I get there.'_ In best-friend speak, that meant, _'Take care and watch your back. I don't wanna lose my closest pal.'_

As the bus pulled away, he slung his gas mask around his neck and hoisted his pack and sleeping roll onto his back. The weather was too hot for the heavy steel helmet, so he carried it in one hand, and picked up his duffel with the other. Then, ready to face the future, he crossed the street and stepped onto the dusty road which led down to the camp.

He quickly found he wasn't the only new arrival. A mass of soldiers was clustered around the open gate, trying to get closer to a sign which rose above the crowd, the words _Barracks Listings And Camp Map_ stamped across it in severe black letters. He heard grumbles from the nucleus of the swarm of humanity, mutterings about _'Can't find where the 101st are housed,'_ and _'Is that the hospital or the shower block?'_ and even a panicked cry of _'Oh god, I think I left my gas mask on the train.'_ Half the speakers spoke with such strong country accents that Bucky couldn't even tell what they were saying. Some of the other soldiers on the fringes of the group had already dropped their duffels and were sitting atop them, waiting for the pile to move forward. It looked like he was gonna be here for a while.

"Echo-Six," Bucky heard a voice say in a Brooklyn drawl above the grumbling din of the crowd. He looked over to a wooden gatepost where a soldier was leaning back, watching him at his ease, his gear dumped unceremoniously at his feet. Like Bucky, he'd opted not to wear the uncomfortable steel helmet, leaving the warm summer breeze to tug at his short black hair.

"What'd you say?" Bucky asked.

"Echo-Six. That's the section of the camp where the 107th barracks are."

His eyes dropped to the soldier's shoulder sleeve insignia; it was the patch of the 107th, and below it were a sergeant's chevrons. _Thank god._ Now he wouldn't have to fight his way through the crowd just to learn where he was gonna be resting his head tonight. Taking the provision of information as an invitation, he picked up his duffel and joined his fellow New Yorker.

"You know whereabouts that is?"

The man rolled his eyes and let out an amused snort which somehow managed to lack any amusement at all.

"Yeah. Right on the far side of the camp."

"If you know where you're going, what're you doing out here?" he asked.

"Doin' my bit for humanity. Keeping an eye out for fellow 107th members and pointing them in the right direction so they don't have to dive into the scrimmage." The soldier's bright blue eyes twinkled in a moment of mirth. "And enjoying my last moments of freedom."

"Don't you wanna be here?"

The man shrugged. "Sure. Here's as good a place to be as any. Do you have any idea what it's like once you check in, though?"

Bucky shook his head. He'd heard rumours at Camp McCoy, but suspected they were mostly started by the camp's drill sergeants as a way of frightening the recruits during training. _'If you think you have it bad now, wait till you get to Last Stop, USA,'_ they would say.

"First thing they make you do when you check in is go to the hospital and have a physical and about a half-dozen shots," the soldier explained. "You don't have a thing about needles, do you?"

"No."

"Good. Because they do typhoid, diphtheria, polio, tetanus, smallpox, cholera and typhus. And we should be glad we're heading to Europe, because half of those tropical diseases they get in the Pacific Theater don't have vaccinations _or_ cures." The soldier reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, which he flipped open and aimed at Bucky. "Smoke?"

"No thanks, I don't."

"Me neither. Terrible habit."

"Uh…" Just his luck. He'd managed to find his first crazy person, and he hadn't even officially reported for duty yet. "If you don't smoke, why do you have cigarettes?"

"For barter."

"Barter?"

"It's a traditional system whereby in the absence of minted coin, goods are exchanged in trade for like or similar value."

"I _know_ what barter is," he said, suppressing a sigh. Great. Crazy _and_ a smart-ass. This day was just getting better and better.

"You didn't bring anything to barter?"

"No."

The soldier let out a low whistle, humour dancing in his blue eyes. "Be glad this isn't the Navy, pal."

On the verge of asking what was so bad about the Navy, he thought better of it. Now that he knew where he had to go, he wanted to dump his heavy gear and take a moment to adjust to the fact that at any moment, he'd be leaving his home and family behind. That soon, real soon, he'd not only be in a different country, but on a different _continent._

"Have you seen any other members of the 107th pass through?"

"Yeah. An excited-looking ginger fella a while ago, and some kid who probably lied about his age, earlier this morning. I sent 'em both on to E-6."

"This morning?" His fellow sergeant was either lying, or completely nuts. "How long have you been stood here?"

The guy shrugged. "What time is it now?"

Bucky checked his watch. "Twelve o'clock and change."

"'Bout six hours, then."

"Six hours? _Why_?"

"I like to people-watch."

He gave a small, disbelieving shake of his head. He'd heard that war could do funny things to people, but he'd never thought it could do things to them _before they_ _'d even been in it._ Maybe his fellow sergeant had been out in the sun for too long; it _was_ an awful hot day. Or maybe he just didn't wanna go into camp alone. The size of the place, and the sheer volume of soldiers in it, was a little intimidating.

"Well, it's lunch time," Bucky pointed out. "I'm gonna check in and see if I can get food before they force me to have all those shots. Y'wanna come too?"

"Not really." The soldier squirmed uncomfortably for a moment. "But I guess I should. I really could use the facilities right now. Kinda forgot to go before leaving the house."

"Too much information."

The guy smirked. "This is the Army. Get used to it, Sergeant..?"

"James Barnes," he said, offering his hand.

"Daniel Wells," his new 107th comrade returned, shaking his hand and then stooping to pick up all his gear. "Most people call me Danny."

"Most people call me Bucky," he offered. Half the time someone called him 'James,' he forgot to respond; it had gotten him in trouble in class more than once, back in school. He'd _tried_ to get his teachers to stop calling him 'James', but most of them were pretty traditional.

"Really? Why?"

"It's a nickname shortened from my middle name, 'Buchanan.'"

"Huh." Danny studied him for a moment, then hoisted his own backpack up over his shoulders. "No offence, but that's the kinda name I'd give my dog as a kid. I mean, if I'd ever been allowed to have a dog. I'll just call you 'Barnes.'"

"Then I'll call you 'Wells.'"

"Fine by me," Wells grinned. "C'mon, Barnes, let's go find Carrot-top and that kid I haven't thought of a name for yet, and see how many interesting diseases we can be inoculated against today."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The inside of Camp Shanks was a form of organised chaos. There was so much going on that Bucky didn't know where to look first, but everybody involved in it all seemed to know what they were doing. Supply wagons rolled continuously though the camp, and several squads ran laps in formation to keep themselves in shape. Commands barked by officers were jumped to by enlisted men, and here and there a few MPs patrolled with K9 units trotting at their heels.

He and Wells made their way beneath the burning sun through sections A1 to C10, and as they reached D1 Bucky took a moment away from watching the camp's activity to study his fellow sergeant a little more closely. Wells was as tall as Bucky, and despite not being quite as broad across the shoulders, he carried all his heavy gear with ease, his feet marking an easy stride that could be kept up all day. If he was feeling nervous about being here, or overwhelmed by everything going on, he gave no indication of it. Though his blue eyes took in everything going on around him, there was an introspective glaze to them which made Bucky think the guy's mind wasn't entirely focused in the moment. It was an expression he suspected he'd be seeing a lot of, over the next few days, as the time for embarkation grew closer and men began to think of all the things they were leaving behind.

"You gotta girl?" he asked, bringing Wells out of his silent reverie.

"Hmm? Oh yeah, sure." He patted his pockets. "I've got a picture around here somewhere… ah, there it is." He tugged a folded paper from his jacket's inner pocket and handed it over. When Bucky opened it, he found himself looking at a very familiar face, a sultry smile teased out below smoky, come-hither eyes.

"That's Rita Hayworth," he said. He'd had a huge crush on her ever since one of the guys down at the boxing club had put a pin-up of her in the locker room. Tall, slender, with a luxurious cascade of red curls, there wasn't a man alive who wouldn't sell his own mother to meet Rita Hayworth in person. Clearly, Sergeant Wells was full of shit. "She's not your girl."

"She will be after the war, when I come back and ask her to marry me."

"Sorry to burst your bubble, pal, but after the war, I intend to ask her to marry _me_ ," Bucky said, handing the picture back.

"Oh?" Wells grinned. "Well then, I say let the best man win."

"That would be me," Bucky told him, affecting an air of mature superiority. He'd had no such plans to ask the movie star to marry him, but if it kept her from marrying somebody who was obviously crazy, he'd do it. For Rita.

Wells merely laughed. "We'll see, pal. We'll see." He nodded to something in the distance, another white sign with a large letter imprinted on it. "That's E-section. We'll find the 107th barracks there."

As they crossed from D to E, they stopped in front of a desk behind which sat one of Camp Shanks' staff sergeants. He was a rather harassed looking man—not an uncommon expression, on the faces of the camp staff—who had a pile of papers weighted down on the table in front of him, and a metal case on a flimsy collapsible chair beside him. The man looked up as they approached, and they both offered quick salutes. Fast saluting was the first lesson taught in basic training, and was considered even more important than being able to correctly hold a rifle. _Discipline_ , the officers of Camp McCoy had said, _is everything_.

"Sergeant Daniel Wells of the 107th, reporting for duty," Wells said, and Bucky echoed his statement for himself.

"Tags," the staff sergeant requested, and they both took them from around their necks and placed them on the table for verification. As the man scrutinised them, Bucky aimed a questioning glance at Wells, who responded with a tiny shrug. Did the staff sergeant think they might be German spies, or something?

When at last he seemed satisfied, the staff sergeant checked them both off his list, then brought out several forms from the metal box beside him. When he'd finished scrawling on them, he placed their tags on top and slid them over the table.

"Your weapon requisition papers; take them to the quartermaster in exchange for your rifle, sidearm and cleaning kit. Your physical exam request forms; take these to the hospital after storing your gear and before doing anything else, because nobody embarks from this camp before undergoing final health checks. Your punch-cards for the mess; the 107th's designated meal times are 5.30am and 5.30pm. Don't try to go outside of your times, and don't try to use them more than twice a day, because the system is monitored and soldiers who try to abuse the system will be punished. Your punch cards for the galley of whichever transport vessel you end up on; don't lose these, otherwise you'll have a very hungry trip ahead of you." The litany was delivered in a very bored tone, and Bucky felt momentarily sorry for the guy. How many times each day did you have to repeat all this before it drove you crazy? "Your barracks is building number six. Shower facilities are at the rear of every sector; we encourage you to make good use of them whilst on base. Hygiene is important, and you won't like what they have on the troop transports. If you're lucky enough to get night passes—which you probably won't be, because priority is given to those who've spent the past few months sequestered in remote training camps—we have strict rules about etiquette which you are expected to familiarise yourself with before leaving base. Bringing civilians onto the base—no matter how pretty they are—is a serious offence and will result in an immediate discharge. Questions?"

Both men quickly shook their heads.

"Dismissed, sergeants."

They both flung another salute, grabbed their papers and tags, and set off to look for building number six before the guy could start issuing more instructions.

"Shame about those passes," said Wells. "I guess they figure anyone coming up from New York doesn't really need to go back there."

"Wish I brought my copy of War and Peace. I probably could've re-read it before we ship out." At least Charlie would get some use out of it. Maybe. Bucky's younger brother wasn't much into reading.

"Home sweet home." Wells stopped outside a long wooden building with a large number '6' above the door, and ran his hand through his hair as he looked in through one of the small windows. "Cosy."

When Bucky stepped inside he found several rows of camp-beds stacked with fresh sheets, blankets and pillows. A few of the beds had been made, and had soldiers' gear piled around them, but the majority were empty.

"Got a preference?" he asked, gesturing wide at all the empty beds.

"Not really," said Wells, as he dumped his stuff on a bed in the centre of the room. "We'll only be here a few days, anyway." Bucky dumped his gear on the bed next door, and turned to find Wells eyeing him up. "You don't snore, do you?"

"Not to my knowledge. Why? Do you?"

"No, but I bet we get a whole bunch of snorers in our squad. It would be just my luck." Wells folded up his papers and stashed them in his jacket pocket. "Guess we better go get poked, prodded and groped by those so-called medics. But first, I gotta visit the john. Wanna hang fire for a few minutes, and we'll go find that hospital?"

"Yeah, sure, take your time." He'd thought Wells had been kidding about all those shots, but now he wasn't so confident. What would happen if he failed the physical exam? What if the docs found something wrong with him at the last minute? Would he be sent home? Would he have to wait here while the rest of the 107th sailed off for adventure?

 _Pull yourself together, man,_ he mentally chastised himself. _You don_ _'t fail tests. You've never failed a test in your life. You wouldn't have got this far if you weren't fit enough to serve. They're not gonna turn you away now, this is just a formality._

Thoughts of medical tests brought back a memory from the night before, of Steve standing in the recruitment centre, trying for the fourth—or was it fifth, now?—time to scrape an 'accepted' on his medical form. Poor Steve. He wanted so much to serve his country by fighting, but time and time again he'd been turned away. Bucky's best friend had never been particularly hale, and he had a list of maladies as long as his arm. Steve had rarely let that stop him from doing what he wanted, but the army wanted their soldiers to be able to march all day and set up camp at night, and still be fit enough to fight if necessary. A soldier's gear weighed more than Steve himself; he never would've survived basic training, much less life on the front lines.

"Hey, you ready to go?" asked Wells, poking his head back into the barracks.

"Sure, might as well get this over with," he said, and joined his new friend outside.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The final medical assessment wasn't just a formality. After waiting in line with Wells outside the hospital for almost an hour, he was eventually led into a small screened-off cubicle where he was made to strip down to his underwear so that he could be poked, and prodded, and groped, just as his friend had predicted. In the space of fifteen minutes he'd been stuck with more needles than he could count, had polio-drops put on his tongue, had his knees tenderised with small hammers, had lights shone into his eyes, and forcibly coughed several times just to satisfy a cold-handed nurse who probably took some depraved pleasure outta making guys uncomfortable. And to top it all off, he was instructed to lie back on the exam bed so that one of the camp's dentists could make sure his teeth weren't about to fall out in the foreseeable future.

After he'd been given the all-clear, he hastily dressed, buttoned up his shirt, pulled on his boots without properly lacing them up, grabbed his jacket and made a swift exit before the nurse could inflict any further unpleasantness on him. Out back, he found Wells sitting on his jacket on the dusty ground, retying his boots. The half-buttoned state of his shirt was evidence that he, too, hadn't wanted to stick around any longer than necessary.

"Join the Army - get medically violated!" Danny quipped with a scowl for the building. "And why do I always get the ones with cold hands? How do they even _have_ cold hands when it's the middle of June and at least eighty-five in the shade?"

"Maybe they have a freezer box in there, and whilst waiting for the next guy to torture, they sit with their hands in the box, just to make them cold."

"Yeah." A speculative gleam stole across the sergeant's eyes. "And they probably stick the needles in flames right before jabbing them into your arm. That would explain why my arm feels like it's burning."

Bucky subconsciously rubbed his own arm. Yeah, it _did_ kinda feel like burning.

"Maybe they weren't even inoculating us," said Wells. "I mean, we only have their word that all those syringes are gonna protect us against typhus and cholera and all that, right? For all we know, they were just putting water in us, and sending us on our merry way, none the wiser."

"What?" Bucky scoffed. "That's crazy. Of course they were inoculating us. You're just being paranoid. They didn't accidentally use that hammer on your head, instead of your knees, did they?"

Wells chuckled, hauled himself to his feet and dusted off his jacket before donning it, and Bucky pulled his jacket on too. The weather was kinda hot for jackets, but the last thing he wanted was a chewing out for improper dress code on his first day. "C'mon, let's go get our guns… and hope the quartermaster doesn't have one of those freezer boxes, too."

There was no queue outside the armoury. They both presented their papers at the front desk and waited patiently while the quartermaster disappeared into the storeroom. When he returned, he was carrying several weapons, two small wooden boxes and a couple of small metal tins.

"Two M1 Garand rifles, loaded with one clip." He opened the bolts to show that the army was indeed not sending its men off to war without at least one clip of ammo, then put both rifles on the table. "Two M1942 bayonet knives plus belt scabbards. Don't lose the scabbards," the quartermaster warned with a glare. "Two M1911A1 .45 calibre Colt pistols, unloaded, with holsters." The two wooden boxes joined the sidearms. "Ammo, for the sidearms. Ammo for the rifles can be requisitioned when you reach your destination. And finally, your cleaning kits." He put the tins down, and they rang out with a metallic _clang_ as their contents shifted inside. "Don't lose your kits."

The easiest way to carry their weapons back to the barracks was to wear them. They slipped their knives and sidearms onto their belts and slung the rifles diagonally across their backs, then picked up their ammo and cleaning kits. The quartermaster watched them hawk-eyed, like he expected them to start losing things there and then, and they both issued salutes before heading out the door.

"You get the feeling a lot of soldiers lose stuff around here?" Wells asked, as they walked along the dusty path.

Bucky thought back to his arrival, to the guy in the crowd who'd bemoaned his gas mask left on a train. "Yeah."

"Ah, well." Danny rolled his shoulders and grinned. "As long as we don't lose the war."

When they got back to the barrack, they found it less empty than when they'd left it. As soon as they stepped through the door, two men—although one of may not have been old enough to rightfully be called a man—leapt to their feet and offered salutes.

"Sir!" said the eldest, a tall, broad-shouldered, copper-haired corporal who looked to be a few years younger than Bucky. "I mean, sirs! I hope you don't mind, sirs, but when we saw you'd picked bunks, we made up your beds for you."

Bucky looked over at the beds he and Wells had dumped their gear on. They had indeed been neatly made, the sheets tucked under the mattresses, the pillows stuffed neatly into cases, the blankets laid at right-angles so perfect that they might have been measured with a try-square. He fought back the overwhelming urge to check whether mints had been left on the pillows, too.

"At ease, Carrot-top," said Wells. "Nobody likes a brown-noser. And don't call me 'sir'; I work for a living."

The corporal relaxed. "Just trying to kill some time, si—arge. Sarge."

Wells came to a stop in front of the second soldier, who hadn't yet relaxed and was standing as stiff as a post. "How old are you, kid?"

"Eighteen," the young man squeaked.

Bucky joined his new friend in scrutinising the young man. He looked like a slightly more robust version of Steve, only with light brown, combed-back hair and dark brown eyes. The guy couldn't have been a day over sixteen, but only God knew how he'd managed to lie his way into enlisting.

"No, really," Bucky said.

"Really, si—um—Sarge. I'm eighteen."

"What's your name?" Wells asked.

"Tipper, si—Sarge. Private Michael Tipper."

"And how long have you been eighteen for, Tipper?"

"Long enough, Sarge."

"Ha! Good answer!" Wells grinned. "What about you, Carrot-top?"

"Corporal Kenny Robbins," he saluted.

"Ugh, don't keep doing that, it makes me dizzy." Wells stopped in front of the Corporal, who was taller than him by an inch. "Good work on those beds, Carrot. Whilst we're here, it'll be your job to ensure every bunk is regulation for each morning inspection. Think you can handle it?"

Carrot puffed up with internal pride. "Yes Sarge, you can count on me."

"Good. That puts my mind at ease. Does it put your mind at ease, Sergeant Barnes?"

"Sure does," he grinned back. Poor Carrot didn't seem to realise that he'd just been nominated for bed-making duty. Ah well, he'd learn soon enough. Bucky made a mental note to keep an eye on Tipper. The kid reminded him a little too much of Steve, and he'd do whatever it took to make sure Tipper wasn't sat on by anyone on the base, 107th or not.

Wells lay his rifle down under his bed and hoisted his duffel on top of the blanket. Rubbing his hands together, he looked up to Carrot and Tipper. "Right, boys, let's see what you've brought for barter."


	2. Camp Rules

We Were Soldiers

 _2\. Camp Rules_

The 107th's barracks filled quickly over the next couple of days as men were called up from all over New York. Every day brought new faces, but everybody soon settled into the monotony of camp life. Three days after arriving at Last Stop, Bucky felt like he'd been there forever, and he'd learnt more from his three days there than he had from three months of winter training at Camp McCoy.

The first thing he learnt—after the fact that his drill sergeants had lied, entirely, about Camp Shanks being an awful place—was that the Army had very specific unwritten rules about nicknames. If your surname was longer than two syllables, you were automatically eligible to receive a nickname, but not everyone could give one. Although anybody could give a nickname to somebody of a lower rank, giving one to someone of the same rank, and successfully making it stick, depended upon your powers of persuasion, general charisma, and ability to bully everyone else into accepting that moniker. It wasn't allowed for the lower-ranked soldiers to give nicknames to higher-ranked soldiers, so names had a sort of cascading waterfall effect.

Even if a surname wasn't longer than two syllables, a nickname might be given if its recipient had a single defining feature or quality. There was a corporal in the 101st Airborne Division who'd been named 'Beaky' because of his unfortunately protuberant nose. A private from the 9th Cavalry Regiment who accidentally fired his sidearm when he was trying to holster it was forever stuck with the name 'Trigger.' And there was—rumour had it—a sergeant somewhere in the A-section of the camp who'd been nicknamed 'Vesuvius', because of his explosive sneezes.

All in all, the guys in the 107th who had the beds immediately around Bucky didn't come off too badly. Pretty much everybody forgot Carrot even had a real name, but the only other victim was Corporal Paul Ferguson, whose surname would have been shortened simply to 'Gus' if it wasn't for his very unfortunate tendency to get gassy when he got nervous. Corporal Ferguson was a generally nervous kinda guy, so he spent a lot of time being gassy, and after two days he was banished to the bed closest to the door, where it was harder to smell him. The nickname 'Gusty' quickly stuck.

Because Bucky and Wells were the only sergeants in their barracks, they escaped the fate of the lower enlisted ranks by virtue of the fact that there wasn't anyone to name them, and they'd already reached an _entente_ on that matter anyway. That didn't stop some of the sergeants from _other_ regiments from trying to name them, though. The one Bucky got most often was 'Sergeant Sheds,' which he supposed was an attempted play on 'barn' and the closest thing anybody could come to being witty. They didn't have such a difficult time with Wells. After he spread a story that some of the British-acquired transport ships used to ferry troops to Europe were so antiquated that they were made out of wood and had viking-style dazzle on their outer hulls, he picked up a nickname pretty quickly. The politer men called him 'Sergeant Hyperbole,' while the rest didn't bother with the pleasantry and merely called him 'Sergeant Bullshit.' Bucky even heard a couple of the privates from the 107th wondering aloud whether they could find a loophole to get that name to stick.

Soldiers, Bucky came to realise over those few days, were an odd bunch. First there was Wells, who couldn't tell a story without putting a twisted, macabre spin on it. He rarely lied outright, because he was too clever for that, but he seemed to delight in making everything as gruesome as possible, even if that meant embellishing beyond credibility.

Gusty was mostly normal, apart from his flatulence problems. He'd been a rail operator before enlisting; a nice, quiet job that agreed with his stomach. He wore glasses and loved to read, hoarded the pocket-sized Armed Services Edition novels like they were gold-dust. Soon he had a sizable library of the things under his bed, and men from other divisions in the camp came over regularly to barter for his books. He loaned Bucky a crisp new copy of _Of Mice and Men_ , and Wells traded him a pack of smokes for a book called _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn._ Gusty didn't smoke, because like most things, it disagreed with his stomach, but he'd heard that American cigarettes were worth their weight in gold in Europe.

Tipper had busy hands. He always needed to be _doing_ something with his fingers. Most of the time he kept a coin in his pockets, so that he could bring it out and play with it, run it over his knuckles or throw it in the air and catch it, playing silent heads-or-tails with himself. When he couldn't play with his coin, his fingers went automatically to his dog-tags, until the constant _jingle-jangle_ of metal-on-metal drove somebody crazy and they shouted at him to stop. Pretty soon, everyone in the 107th was carrying an emergency coin in his pocket, to be passed on to Tipper in case he lost his.

Carrot was a guy who liked routine. He'd wake up every morning at 5 o'clock on the dot and drop to the floor to do fifty push-ups. The rest of the 107th didn't have to worry about alarm-clocks, nor wait for the camp's bugler to sound 6 o'clock _Reveille_ ; Carrot's verbal count was the best alarm they could have, and not a man amongst them was still asleep by the count of thirty. After breakfast, he went to the shower block and spent exactly fifteen minutes getting undressed, washed and dressed again, and he had it down like clockwork. In fact, Wells and Gusty had once actually timed him, and agreed that it was fifteen minutes exactly. After his shower, he returned to the barracks and cajoled everybody into making up their bunks, ready for the 7am inspection. The man had a big heart; if one of his comrades was too tired, or lazy, to properly fix up his own bunk, Carrot would do it for him. A big heart, but not the largest brain. When Bucky asked him why he did everything in a very specific way, to a very specific time, he said it was because that was the way it had been taught at Camp Callan, where he'd done his basic training. He didn't seem to realise that he could do things differently now.

After four days of waiting for the rest of the regiment to arrive at Last Stop, barrack number 6 was packed almost to overflowing. Bucky knew it wouldn't be long until they were sent for embarkation, and the thought brought mixed emotions. Excitement was always there, churning at his stomach. He was about to begin what might prove to be the grandest, most dangerous adventure of his life. But there was so much he was leaving behind, and so much he would be missing out on.

Mary-Ann, his younger sister by two and a half years, and his closest sibling, had gone down to Baltimore with some of her friends a few months earlier, answering the call for workers to help build the Liberty Fleet. With so many young men enlisting, it fell to the older men and the women to pick up the hard work, the manual labour, the difficult and often thankless tasks. She'd been a homeroom teacher for two years, but as soon as Bucky announced he was signing up, she'd declared that she was gonna go to Baltimore and build him a proper boat, to make sure he got there and back safely. Her determined ferocity had made him smile. It was very unlikely he'd be travelling on a troop ship Mary-Ann had helped to make, but just knowing his sister had a hand in building the fleet that was carrying brave American soldiers made him feel better about leaving home and fighting on the front lines. With women like Mary-Ann to take care of things at home, his country would be in good hands.

At eighteen, Charlie would be graduating high school this year. In just a few weeks he'd be taking his girlfriend, Linda, to their senior prom, and after that he'd have a cushy ride at college, thanks to a scholarship he'd earned through his hard work in the classroom and skill on the baseball field. Charlie might not like reading for fun, but that hadn't stopped him throwing himself into his studies to make sure he got a much-coveted place in one of New York's top universities.

Janet was the baby of the family. Sweet-sixteen, and a genuinely sweet girl. When Mary-Ann had been her age, Bucky had fallen easily into his role of dutiful older brother, making sure the guys she went out with were good enough for her, and that they treated her right. He would miss out on that, with Janet, but his youngest sister seemed destined to be a late bloomer; she spent more time hanging around with her girl-friends and shopping than she did batting her eyelashes at boys. Sisters they might be, but she and Mary-Ann were very different. Maybe if fortune was with Bucky, he could get back before Janet started showing any interest in the guys at her school.

And then there was Steve, who was like the second brother Bucky had never had. Steve, who managed to be more frustrating than all of his real siblings combined. He had Mary-Ann's stubbornness, Charlie's dedication and Janet's charming obliviousness. Steve was smarter than almost anybody else Bucky had ever met. He could do anything with his life, take his pick of jobs… but all he wanted to do was fight. He had the heart of a warrior inside the body of a frail asthmatic. To Bucky, that had never mattered, because Steve's sharp wit, bravery and compassion had cemented their friendship early on, but to the brass of the U.S. Army, it mattered a whole lot. Still, if there was one thing Bucky could be glad about, it was that Steve would be well out of harm's way during the war. The Army wouldn't take him, and the Krauts couldn't reach him. Steve would be safe. All of Bucky's family would be safe.

"Hey," said Wells, sticking his head into the empty barracks. His blue eyes had a humourous gleam to them.

Bucky looked up from his bed, where he was busy writing out a letter in triplicate. One to home, one to Mary-Ann in Baltimore, and one to Steve. There wasn't much he could tell them, and probably less that would actually make it through the army's censors, but at least he could let them know he was doing okay, still on American soil, and missing them already.

"Hey," he returned.

"You're a pretty good pitcher, right? I remember you bragging about it a couple of days ago."

"I wasn't bragging, but yeah, I'm pretty decent. Why?"

A happy smile spread across Wells' face like warm butter across toast. "The Screaming Eagles just managed to get themselves a proper dart board and set it up out back of their barracks."

"What's that gotta do with baseball?"

"Nothing, obviously," Wells snorted. "But they just challenged us to a game."

"You mean _you_ challenged them to a game?"

His friend shrugged. "Let's not split hairs."

"I don't see what this has to do with pitching at baseball."

"Pitching balls and throwing darts; how different can they be?"

"Uh, very different, actually. One of them is round and ball-shaped, the other is kinda pointy."

"C'moooon, Barnes," Wells wheedled like a damn kid, "we've got a pack of smokes and three of Gusty's books riding on this match. Plus, you know, the honour of our regiment. It's a doubles match, and I need someone with better aim than Carrot. Come on, pal, don't go lettin' us down in our hour of need."

With a deep sigh, Bucky packed away his writing equipment and his half-written letters. Soon, very soon, he'd be leaving his family behind. But for better or worse, and despite all their idiosyncrasies, the 107th were his family from now on.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Private First Class Harvey Franklin was a typical rank and filer. He was cheerful, hard-working, didn't shirk his duties but—unlike Carrot—wasn't dumb enough to actually _volunteer_ for anything, and he could be relied upon to be reliable. He also had a very strange way of stirring his coffee. Bucky had watched him do it three days in a row, and on the fourth day he nudged Wells, who was sat beside him at the mess table devouring what the soldiers referred to as 'mystery bags' but were in fact sausages of some sort, along with a large pile of beans.

At first, Wells glared at him for the interruption. Then he followed Bucky's gaze to Franklin, who was sitting opposite them. He took in Franklin's odd stirring, and the intense concentration on the guy's face as he did it, and in his usual forthright manner, asked, "The hell are you doing, Franklin?"

Franklin didn't even glance up. "Stirring my coffee, Sarge."

"Why are you stirring it like _that_?"

"Because that's how you stir coffee. Surely you must know how to stir coffee?" When he finally looked up, he must've seen the blank looks on his sergeants' faces. "See, my old Granny taught me that to make a proper good cup of joe, you have to add your sugar and stir it in a figure of eight motion ten times, like this, so that all the sugar gets evenly dispersed to every bit of the coffee."

"That's bullshit."

"It isn't bullshit, Sarge," said Franklin, a hurt little frown sliding across his face.

"No, he's right, it's bullshit," Bucky said, much as it pained him to agree with _Wells_ of all people calling out someone else for bullshit. "Franklin, it's coffee and sugar. It doesn't matter how you stir it, it's always gonna taste the same."

"If you insist, Sarge. But if it's alright with you, I'm gonna keep stirring it my way. It really does make a difference."

Wells jumped up from his seat.

"Where are you going?" Bucky asked him.

"To get another cup of coffee. I gotta try it." He returned with a fresh cup of strong black coffee and several sachets of sugar. "Alright, Franklin, how many are you putting in there?"

"Four."

" _Four?!_ Hell, man… why?"

The look on Franklin's face suggested the answer was obvious. "When we get to the front lines, Sarge, there's not gonna be _any_ sugar. So I gotta get my allowance in now."

"How many cups of coffee do you have a day?" Bucky enquired.

"Just two."

"I refuse to do that to my arteries," said Wells. "I'm just putting one in, and I don't care what your old Granny says about that."

Bucky watched as Wells added a sachet and began stirring in a figure of eight motion. He counted ten stirs, then Wells took a sip.

"So?" Bucky prompted his friend.

"Well I'll be damned. I think it actually _does_ taste better."

"Bullshit," he scoffed.

"No, really. Try it."

Wells handed the cup over. Bucky tried it. "Huh." Franklin was right. Who'd'a thought?

When the rest of the 107th arrived, they were initiated into the fold, and twenty minutes later, when the 101st Airborne—who had barracks Echo-Eight—showed up for their own breakfast slot, they found some eighty members of the 107th intently stirring sugar into their coffees.

"The hell are you all doing?" demanded Sergeant Murphy of the 101st. The guy had a large, bushy moustache that made him look older than his twenty-five years and which quivered when he exhaled. Right now it was quivering in amused curiosity.

So Franklin told him, and Bucky gave him a cup of coffee to try, and when they left, the Screaming Eagles were all very quietly, very intently, stirring their coffees in figure of eight patterns.

By evening meal, word had spread around the entire camp about the best way of stirring coffee. For twenty-four hours, Franklin was famous. Practically a hero. Even men who hadn't previously drank coffee started taking it up, just so they could try it out.

At breakfast the next day, Private Tipper dashed into the mess, almost falling over himself in his haste. He slid to a halt beside Bucky's table, issued a swift salute—because no amount of grumbling and eye-rolling from Wells had been able to break him out of that habit—and launched into conversation without so much as a 'good morning' or 'Sarge'.

"I just spoke to a corporal in the 9th Cavalry who said we're stirring our coffee the wrong way!"

"Did you tell him about the figure of eight?" Wells asked, blowing across the top of his cup so that it cooled a little faster.

"Yeah, and he said we're only doing it half right. He said figures of eights go two ways. He said after you do the ten figures in the normal way—that is to say, counter clockwise at the top and clockwise at the bottom—you gotta _reverse it_ for the next ten and do clockwise at the top then counter clockwise at the bottom."

"Huh." Wells grabbed his discarded spoon and began re-stirring his coffee, whilst Franklin looked on with a crestfallen expression. "Y'know, that really does taste even better," Wells admitted, after tasting his coffee again.

When the Screaming Eagles arrived, the 107th passed on the new method of ultimate coffee-stirring, and by nightfall word had gotten around the whole camp.

At breakfast the next day, the 107th discovered a new sign in the mess hall. In big, harsh black lettering, it said, _"To facilitate swift dining of all base personnel, coffee may only be stirred_ _ **five times**_ _in_ _ **either direction**_ _._ _"_

"Those fascists," Wells grumbled.

"Oh well, it was nice while it lasted," Bucky agreed, patting Franklin on the shoulder. The poor guy looked like he'd just been told his old Granny had died all over again.

A short while later, Bucky heard that the 9th Cavalry had made up some bullshit about counter-stirring the coffee, just to see if the 107th would fall for it, so he and Wells challenged them to a match on the 101st's dart board, and won back the 107th's honour.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Why so glum, Carrot?" asked Bucky, the day after the 107th's honour had been restored.

Carrot hadn't been himself all day. He'd only done ten press-ups in the morning, only stirred his coffee twice at breakfast, his usual fifteen-minute shower routine had taken eighteen minutes, and he'd barely cajoled _anyone_ into making up their bunks for inspection; Wells had been forced to yell at two of the privates just to get them into line, and he _hated_ yelling. Bucky had found Carrot sitting in the shade of barracks E-8, pretending to watch the Eagles practice darts whilst in actual fact he stared at the picture of his girl which he held in both hands.

"Oh, it's nothing, Sarge," Carrot sighed morosely.

"C'mon Corporal, you can tell me what's wrong." He didn't like to see a guy so down, especially when that guy was usually full of exuberance.

"Well… it's my girl, Samantha." Carrot held up the picture for Bucky to see. Bucky had already seen it four times, because Carrot liked to show everybody his girl, but he nodded and made the appropriate impressed noises, and Carrot continued. "We've been together since we were sixteen, and always planned to get married at twenty-one. So, I proposed, and she accepted… and then I got called up. I would'a done it there and then, but I didn't want something shotgun style, I wanted the proper thing, so we agreed to wait."

"That must'a been a difficult decision for both of you."

"Yeah," Carrot sighed. "Anyway, tomorrow is our anniversary. Our fifth anniversary of being together. And every year on our anniversary, I give Samantha a single red rose. They're her favourite flowers, and every time she got a single red rose from me, she knew she was the only one I wanted. This will be the first year I haven't sent her a rose, Sarge." Poor Carrot looked close to tears, his blue eyes all hazy. "What if it's port… poten… what if it's a bad omen?"

Bucky knew enough about love to know that he'd never truly experienced it. Not like Carrot had. He'd never found that one girl who made him want to stop chasing all the others. Never found that special someone he could be happy falling asleep beside and waking up next to. But he knew that if he ever found it, he'd want to do whatever it took to hold onto it. And he'd want to know that his buddies would be there to back him up.

"Carrot," he said, reaching out to lay a hand on the young man's broad shoulder. "Your girl is going to get a red rose from you tomorrow. We're going to make sure of it."

Flames of hope sprang into Carrot's watery eyes, doused a moment later as reality set in. "But Sarge… how?"

"I'm not sure, yet," he admitted. "But we'll ask Wells to help. He'll know what to do."

Carrot gave an unamused scoff. "Wells won't help, Sarge. He's too bitter."

"We'll see about that. C'mon, Carrot, we've got a mission now."

He pulled Carrot to his feet and was pleased to see a spring in the tall man's step. Some people would rather wallow in misery than dare to hope and be helped, and he was glad to see Carrot wasn't one of them. They found their barracks empty except for Wells, who was lying on his bed and his back reading the _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ novel he'd traded Gusty a pack of smokes for. Seemingly engrossed in his reading, he didn't look over as the pair strode into the room.

"We need a red rose," Bucky told him, as he and Carrot stopped by his bed.

"A red rose, huh?" Wells mused, glancing up at his comrades. He closed his book, tucked it into his pocket, then made a show of feeling beneath his bunk for an imaginary something. "Let's see. I got tulips, daffodils…" he tossed the imaginary flowers over his shoulder, "…posies? Where the hell'd they come from? Sorry boys, looks like you're out of luck; I'm fresh out of red roses."

"Don't be such a smart-ass," Bucky told him.

"I can't help it. It comes natural. Whaddya want a red rose for anyway?"

"It's for Carrot's girl. It's their anniversary tomorrow, and it's traditional."

Wells shrugged, completely unsympathetic as he lay back down on his bed. "So write her a poem _about_ roses. Let's see… _'Roses are red, violets are blue, farewell my darling, ma cherie — adieu.'_ See, I'm practically Shakespeare, and not even the army's censors can ruin that." The arches of his black eyebrows suddenly lowered into a frown. "Unless they think you're trying to secretly convey that you're being shipped out to France."

"See," Carrot said to Bucky, "I told you he was too bitter to help."

" _Bitter?!_ " Wells spluttered, sitting up. "I'm not bitter, Carrot, I'm just not a complete _patsy_."

"Corporal, go wait outside," said Bucky. After Carrot left, he rounded on his friend. "You're gonna help me help Carrot, Wells, because I helped you win that darts game against the Eagles, the one you had stakes riding on. And because even if you think Carrot's a patsy, he's still a member of the 107th, which means he's _our_ patsy. And it's the right thing to do."

"Fine," Wells sighed. "But only because it's a slow day and I got nothing better going on."

"Thanks."

"Ugh, don't thank me. You might make me feel good about helping the chump." Wells pulled his boots onto his feet and quickly laced them up.

"You _should_ feel good about it. There's nothing wrong with that. And where'd you learn to speak French, anyway?"

"What are you talking about?" Wells asked, a puzzled expression creeping over his face. "I don't speak French."

They found Carrot loitering nearby, toeing a stone with his boot, looking as lost and forlorn as a puppy who'd been kicked out the house for piddling on the carpet.

"This rose," said Wells, coming to a stop in front of Carrot. "It doesn't need to conform to any stupid specifications, does it?"

"Well, um, it needs to be red—"

Wells gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Yeah, I got that. But it doesn't need to have a certain type of petal pattern, or one leaf on the stem for every year you've been together?"

Carrot's eyes momentarily clouded over. "Hey… one leaf for every year… that's a great idea, Sarge! How'd you think that one up?"

"Oh, don't give me that look. I read it somewhere. Anyway, it's too late to start that tradition now. Leave it until you're married. One leaf for every kid your unholy union produces."

"Okay Sarge, but where are we gonna find a rose for Samantha out here?"

 _Where indeed?_ Bucky wondered. The land around Camp Shanks had been scoured bare. If there were roses, they wouldn't be found for miles. Wells would have to be some sort of goddamn wizard, to pull this one out of his hat.

"Where?" Wells smiled, hooking an arm over each of their shoulders and leading them deeper into the camp. "Oh no, my friends. This isn't a matter of _where_ , but of _how._ "

Bucky learnt something new that day. He learnt it wasn't _what_ you knew, but _who_ you knew, that got you ahead in the life. The army had many closely guarded secrets. Everybody knew that if you wanted or needed something, you had to go to the quartermaster and requisition it. But one of the closely guarded secrets was, if you knew the right people, you didn't even have to know the quartermaster's name, and you certainly didn't have to complete a lengthy requisition form.

Private First Class Larry Davies had arrived at the 107th's barracks on the same bus as Gusty and Franklin. Bucky had spoken to the guy a few times, but never really marked him out for any particular reason. Like Franklin, the guy did everything that needed to be done, only without Franklin's odd coffee-stirring tendencies. He'd seemed your typical G.I., he'd adapted without issue or complaint to camp life, so Bucky had left him to his own devices.

He quickly learnt what a mistake that had been.

They found Pfc. Davies sitting at a table nestled in the narrow alley between C-2 and C-3, conveniently off the beaten path, playing a game of poker with a few privates and corporals from various other regiments. They didn't look _guilty_ as Wells approached with Bucky and Carrot in tow, but they suddenly looked a lot less comfortable.

"Scram," said Wells, pinning Davies to his chair with his gaze, "and I'll forget I saw you all here. Ah, Private Ramirez, leave that bottle of beer. Atta boy." Wells took one of the vacated seats and a quick swig of the beer. Then he pulled his face. "Ugh, warm. It's like we're already in England."

"I was up by fifty points," said Davies, shooting a dark scowl at Wells.

"This is more important."

"Nothing is more important than being up by fifty points."

Wells gave him a smile which Bucky could only describe as _malicious,_ and leant back in his chair. "Tell me, Private Davies, do you enjoy the location of your bed? The bed that is at the opposite end of the barracks to Corporal Ferguson's bed? The bed which Hawkins and Donovan have asked me to switch them to at least twice each? Hawkins and Donovan, as you probably know, had the misfortune of showing up last to camp, and therefore ended up bunking next to Gusty."

"I see what you mean, Sarge," said Davies. "This is way more important than being fifty points up. What can I do for you?"

"I need a red rose, I need it hand-delivered to someone in New York, and I need it done tomorrow. What's it gonna cost me?"

Davies reached into his pocket. Bucky expected him to come out with a calculator. Instead, he came out with a licorice root, which he chewed on for several minutes as his eyes went unfocused and darted across the table as if tracking the erratic movement of ants. Finally, he nodded to himself, and looked up at Wells.

"Two packs of smokes."

"Alright. Now, what do you need to make it happen?"

"Twenty pairs of new or like-new clean socks, five of Gusty's most undamaged novels, a small compact mirror, a box of .45 ammunition, three games of darts doubles with you and Sergeant Barnes flying for the 107th, a platinum-nibbed fountain pen, an Elvgren Girls calendar from 1941, and the two packs of smokes."

Wells drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. "The calendar could be a problem. Does it _have_ to be 1941?"

"1940 or '42 would be adequate, but it might cost you an extra pack of smokes. '41 would be better. And I need it all by dinner time."

"Shit. We better get started, then."

Wells set off back to the E-section, and Bucky hurried after him, while Carrot brought up the rear.

"I don't get it, Sarge," the corporal said. "If he can get a rose to Samantha for two packs of smokes, what does he need all that other stuff for?"

"It's complicated. Not even I know the whole ins-and-outs of it." Wells shook his head. "I'm not sure I _want_ to know. Suffice it to say, this is what he needs, so this is what he gets. Carrot, you go find Gusty, tell him to dig out five of his best novels. Barnes, you get twenty volunteers to give up a pair of socks each. Also, I'll need your box of ammo."

"How am I supposed to get Gusty to give up five books?" Carrot wailed. "You know how protective he is of them!"

"And how am I supposed to get twenty people to give up a pair of socks?" Bucky asked. Socks, too, were worth their weight in gold.

"Order 'em, if you have to. And tell them they don't need to worry; they'll get it all back."

"What are you gonna be doing?"

"Me?" Wells grimaced. "I'll get everything else."

Two hours later, Bucky found himself playing his third game of darts on the Eagles' board. He didn't recognise the insignia of the regiment he and Wells were playing against, but by this point, he didn't care.

"Remind me again why we're doin' this," he said to his friend, as one of their opponents stepped up to the line with his three darts in hands.

Wells lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Corporal Mayweather from the Eagles got himself a pass for tomorrow night, but he blew it in a poker game with some guy from the 9th Cavalry. We gave Mayweather twenty pairs of socks to get his pass back, but the guy with the pass wants five novels, so we traded half the socks back for—"

"Actually, forget it," Bucky interrupted. "Just tell me I'm gonna get that box of ammo back."

"Don't worry, pal, Davies knows a corporal who works for the quartermaster, and in exchange for a box of ammo he'll accept a compact mirror, which we needed to trade the calendar for because—"

"Never mind. I just decided I don't want to know."

"That's the best way," Wells nodded. "Just let the man do his job."

"What exactly _was_ Pfc. Davies' job before enlisting?"

"I'm not sure. But his dad's Italian. Probably best not to ask too many questions."

"How'd you know that? And how'd you know Davies was the man to go to for all of this?" Bucky asked his friend.

"We were at the same boot camp. There was nothing Davies couldn't get, even back then."

Davies was gone for half the night. Bucky, along with Carrot and Wells and Gusty and Franklin, heard him stumble in after midnight, and he sounded pretty drunk as he made his way to his camp bed at the far side of the room. Quite an accomplishment, to say there was no alcohol allowed on base. When Bucky awoke the next morning, Davies was already gone. Which was also quite an accomplishment, for someone who'd rolled into the barrack in the Private's state of inebriation. Bucky threw socks at Wells' head until his friend woke up.

"Wha'?" Wells demanded, glaring at Bucky.

"Davies is gone."

"Ah, don't worry." And because it wasn't even five o'clock yet, Wells rolled over and went back to sleep.

Bucky couldn't help but worry. His desire to help Carrot had avalanched into a quarter of the 107th missing a pair of their socks, Gusty complaining about five of his best books being taken for nothing, his own box of ammunition for his Colt being given away, and Davies going missing for half of the day, so that they had to make up some bullshit excuse about the Private being taken ill with the trots when the camp's XO came for daily inspection and found the 107th one man short.

Around midday, strange things started to happen around E-6. First, a guy from one of the Anti-Aircraft divisions turned up with a bunch of socks, which he gave back to the 107th. Privates from three different regiments brought all five of Gusty's books back, plus an extra two which were, apparently, 'interest.' Just before dinner, one of the quartermaster's staff appeared with a box of .45 Colt ammo for Bucky, and an apology for the 'mistake' that had resulted in him getting the wrong calibre ammo for his sidearm.

After dinner, Bucky sat out the front of the barracks with Carrot and Wells, watching the sun go down to the sound of the Screaming Eagles swearing at each other as they tried to improve at darts. At ten-thirty, the camp's bugler sounded Taps. As the moon began to rise high into the sky, one of the Eagles stumbled over to E-6, smelling like a woman's boudoir. From his jacket pocket he pulled a slip of flowery pink paper, the source of the boudoir scent, which he handed to Carrot before wandering off back to his own barrack.

A wide smile lit up Carrot's face, his eyes sparkling in the moonlight as he read the note. "It's from Samantha! She says she got my rose!" Arms open wide, he turned to Wells. "Thank you, Sarge!"

"If you try to hug me I will fuckin' shoot you, Corporal," Wells scowled.

Carrot wisely decided not to try. Instead, he disappeared into the barrack, to show off his perfumed letter and spread the happy news.

"You did a good thing, Wells, whether you want to admit it or not," Bucky told his friend.

Wells shrugged. "I did an entertaining thing. That's all. And don't grin like that, it makes you look like a goddamn twelve year old kid who just got his grubby mitts on the cookie jar."

"I gotta ask… what'd you do before enlisting?"

"Me?" The guy actually sounded surprised by the question. "I was an accountant."

"No bullshit?"

"No bullshit."

"Huh." His dad's accountant was about sixty, and spoke in the dullest monotone Bucky had ever heard. In fact, so did all the other accountants in the firm. It was like they shared one tone of voice. Possibly even one personality. Maybe they split it ten ways, or passed it around so that each of them got to use it on a specific day. "I thought accountants were supposed to be stuffy, and old, and boring?"

Wells merely grinned. "Shows what you know, Barnes."


	3. This Man's Army

We Were Soldiers

 _3\. This Man_ _'s Army_

Six days after Bucky arrived at Camp Shanks, there was an incident. Because the 107th had the second breakfast slot, they caught the aftermath as they arrived at the mess at 5.30 in the morning. The 93rd Signal Brigade, who had the 5am slot, were sheepishly eating their breakfasts, while several of the camp's staff were trying to restore order to the disarrayed kitchen. Every mixing bowl on the shelves had been turned upside down, eggs had been splattered against the ceiling, and there was so much white covering the floor, being swept into a corner for later removal, that it looked like a very small snowstorm had hit the room.

"What happened?" Bucky asked Sergeant Potts of the 93rd.

Potts made a 'shushing' motion and glanced warily at the cook, who was standing in the middle of the chaos with a look on his face like he was about to murder someone.

"Someone broke in overnight," Potts whispered. "Threw all the eggs in the stores at the ceiling, mixed up the mixing bowls, and emptied damn near every single packet of sugar onto the floor."

That certainly explained the piles of white. Franklin very nearly had a nervous breakdown right there and then. Bucky sent him off with Tipper and Carrot to get a bowl of oatmeal, which seemed to be the only thing being served today.

"They got any suspects?" asked Wells.

"Not yet, but I heard the MPs are gonna do a search of every barracks."

"For what? Missing sugar packets?"

Bucky's mind went immediately to the sugar packets in his duffel bag. Ever since Franklin had mentioned there would be no sugar on the front lines, everyone had slipped a packet or two outta the mess hall at every meal. Even those who didn't use sugar now stockpiled it for trade.

"Dunno," said Potts.

"If they go looking for sugar packets, we're in trouble," Bucky said quietly to Wells.

His friend merely snorted and rolled his eyes. "If they go looking for sugar packets, the whole damn army's gonna be in trouble. Do you think ours are the only guys who take a packet or two of sugar? Everybody does it. And by law it can't be stealing, because as soldiers in service to our country we're entitled to a certain amount of sugar for our coffee; the rules don't state _when_ we have that sugar, just that we're entitled to it. See, what I do, is I don't have my sugar in my coffee at meal time, I just take it with me, back to the barracks, and keep it for later."

"I've seen you putting sugar in your coffee."

Wells gave him a very pointed glare. "I don't put sugar in my coffee at meal times. And neither do you. And Sergeant Potts here, he doesn't either, do you, Potts?"

"Absolutely not," Potts agreed.

"Besides, the crime here is clearly not thef—I mean, redistribution." Wells gestured at the corporals who'd been given sugar-sweeping duty, possibly as punishment for breathing around the cook. "The sugar isn't missing, it's quite obviously all there. What we have here is pure, malicious vandalism. It's gotta be someone from the outside."

"How d'ya figure?" Bucky asked. His fellow sergeant had a very straightforward mind. In fact, it was so straightforward that at times it seemed incredibly convoluted.

"What kinda idiot is gonna sabotage the base's supply of sugar?" Wells aimed a very forlorn look at the ceiling. "And you know how much I like my eggs in the morning. There are going to be no eggs for breakfast today. If I find whoever ruined my breakfast, I'm gonna actually kill him. And Franklin might just kill him outta sheer sugar-withdrawal. Whoever did this screwed us all over, and the one thing you don't do in the Army is screw your buddies. That's more of a Navy thing."

He had to admit, Wells had a point. A very good point. The senseless vandalism was one step up from a joke, and one step down from a true crime. It was almost childlike, infantile in its simplicity. It was like someone had either come into the mess with the sole intention of _causing_ a mess, or tried and failed to bake a really big cake. The 107th didn't speculate over breakfast, because the cook was within hearing range, but they talked about it for a while as they walked back to their barracks. The only conclusion they managed to reach was that whoever did it was a rotten bastard.

A pair of MPs arrived with the camp's XO for daily inspection, and they went through everything with a fine toothed comb. Much to Bucky's dismay and Franklin's whimpering horror, they confiscated every sachet of sugar they found, but by this time the 107th had already hidden a large stash of it in a linen bag which they'd buried in a hole in the ground, out back of the barracks. They'd left enough sugar to make the MPs think they'd found it all, but half of the packets were safe out of sight. At nightfall, Davies planned to recover them.

Nothing official was said about the confiscated sugar. Bucky guessed that by this point, they'd probably recovered so much from so many barracks that they'd either run out of disciplinary forms, or had stopped caring enough to issue them. After the MPs left, everybody breathed a sigh of relief, and the excitement of the morning swiftly passed.

Around midday, Bucky was sat outside E-6 with Wells and Gusty as they tried to teach Carrot how to play poker. The poor guy just couldn't grasp all the different card combinations, so they'd written them down for him, to give him something to reference. But in true Carrot fashion, each time he got a new hand, he ran his finger down the list until he found the combination he held. The game was not going in Corporal Robbins' favour.

"Erm, excuse me, Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Wells. Could I… erm, have a word? In private?"

Bucky looked up into the face of Private Frederick Biggs. Like Gusty, Biggs was a quiet sorta guy who kept to himself and didn't like to make a fuss about things. He was popular with the other privates because he was built like an ox and just as strong; he never minded doing any heavy lifting for them.

"Gusty," said Wells, "why don't you take Carrot and try to teach him why two-pair of kings and fives is better than two-pair of kings and fours?"

"Sure, Sarge. C'mon Carrot, let's go find somewhere quiet to work this out."

When the pair left, Bucky gestured to one of the empty seats, and Biggs sat down, running his big, shovel-sized hands through his hair.

"What's on your mind, Biggs?"

"I think I'm in trouble, Sarge."

"This much is obvious from your sweaty demeanour and hand-wringing," Wells pointed out, ever his sensitive self. "What's eating you up?"

"Y'know that brouhaha in the mess this morning?"

"I vaguely recall it."

"Well, I think that might've been me."

Bucky kicked Wells under the table before he could come out with something smart-assed, and leant forward to look into Biggs' face. "What do you mean, Private?"

"I think I might've done it, Sarge."

"You don't know whether you trashed the mess kitchen?" Wells asked, nimbly moving his legs so Bucky couldn't kick him again. "How could you not know something like that?"

"When I get stressed, I sleep-walk, Sarge," said Biggs. "And I do things. In my sleep. Strange things. One time, my dad found me sleeping outside, in the dog house."

"What kid _hasn_ _'t_ slept in the dog house at some point?" Wells shrugged.

"No Sarge, this was two weeks ago. Y'see, I only started getting stressed after I enlisted. This is a recent thing."

"It couldn't have been you, Biggs," Bucky pointed out. "You couldn't have left the barracks, trashed the mess kitchen, then returned, without one of us hearing you come and go."

"Unless you sleep-sneak, instead of sleep-walk," Wells grinned.

"I can be pretty quiet," Biggs nodded sadly. "Just before I left home, I sleep-walked again and baked a birthday cake for my mom."

"That's sweet," Bucky smiled.

"It's not her birthday till December. What should I do, Sarge?"

"You could always bake us cupcakes," said Wells. "Oh, stop looking at me like that, Barnes." He sighed and shook his head, turning his focus back to Biggs. "This is a serious problem, Private."

Biggs nodded glumly. "If the brass find out it was me that trashed the kitchen, I'll be court-martialled for sure."

"Forget the kitchen! This is far worse than that, Biggs. We'll be shipping out to the front lines soon. What if you sleepwalk off the transport and into the ocean? Or what if we get to the front lines and you sleepwalk outta your tent and straight onto a land mine?"

Biggs' face went white as a sheet. Wells had a good point. He was full of those today.

"Didn't you put this on your medical form?" Bucky asked the private.

"Yeah, but it's not exactly something they can test you for. They thought I was tryin' to dodge! What am I gonna do, Sarge? I don't wanna walk off the ship or onto a land mine!"

"We'll tie you down," he suggested. "Lash you to your bed. Then you can't go anywhere."

"And we'll move Gusty directly in front of the door," added Wells. "That way, even if you manage to get yourself out of bed, you won't be able to leave the barracks without climbing over Gusty and waking him up."

Disbelief and gratitude warred across Biggs' face. "Really, Sarge? You'd do all that for me?"

"Of course," said Bucky. "We're practically family."

"'Cept I like you a lot more than I like my real family," Wells grinned.

That night, before lights-out, they tried to figure out the best way of restraining Biggs without hurting him. Rope gave him friction-burn, and shoe laces risked cutting off his circulation if he pulled them taut in his sleep. Finally, Davies came up with the idea of looping belts through the metal rungs of the camp bed, and using them like cuffs around Biggs' wrists. The belts were long enough to allow Biggs some movement, and by punching extra holes in the leather they could fasten them tightly enough to comfortably restrain him without hurting him.

During the early hours of the morning, Bucky was woken by a loud screeching sound, like fingernails down a chalkboard. It tore through his dreams and dragged him out of his pleasant, sleepy haze. The dream-memory of his mom's cooking at Thanksgiving slid away, replaced by the darkness of the barracks.

"What the hell?" he grumbled, as more of the soldiers began to wake.

One of the men by the light control box flipped a switch, flooding the barracks with a pale yellow glow, and in that glow he saw Private Biggs making his way across the room, stumbling under the weight of the camp bed, which dragged along the floor behind him and was the cause of the screeching, scraping sound.

"What do we do, Sarge?" asked Carrot, while the rest of the 107th looked on as baffled as Bucky felt.

"I dunno. Don't they say you shouldn't hold a sleepwalker down in case he hurts himself more?"

"I think that's people having fits," Gusty offered helpfully. "I think with sleepwalkers, you're not supposed to wake them."

Wells waved his hand in front of Biggs' face, which was blank and slack-jawed. "He's really out of it."

Gusty backed up as Biggs continued his shambling march. His bed was right in the path of the door, and Biggs didn't look like he was gonna stop. "He's getting closer!" Gusty said, in a whimpering tone. "Somebody do something before he tries to climb over and crashes our beds together!"

"We're gonna have to wake him," said Wells.

"Go on then," Bucky instructed. "Just give his shoulder a shake or something."

Wells looked at him as if he was mad. "Are you kiddin'? I'm not waking him. What if he lashes out? His hands are as big as my head. _You_ give his shoulder a shake or something."

"Not a chance," Bucky scoffed. "Gusty, wake him up."

"Err, I don't think so, Sarge."

"You're gonna defy a direct order from a sergeant, Corporal?"

"Yes, Sarge." Gusty's eyes glanced around for a lower ranked man. "Pfc. Davies, wake up Private Biggs."

Davies merely scoffed and gave the corporal the two-fingered salute.

"I'll do it, Sarge," Tipper squeaked. He had his rifle in his hands and was advancing towards Biggs with the muzzle-end ready for poking into the big man's shoulder. Wells made a swift grab for the weapon and wrenched it from Tipper's grip.

"Holy crap, Tipper, are you insane? You don't poke your squadmates with your goddamn rifle."

"Sorry, Sarge," Tipper cringed.

"I've got an idea," said Bucky. He'd been eyeing up the bed, trying to find alternative forms of stopping Biggs from advancing which wouldn't end with someone gettin' punched if he flailed. "If we pile a few men onto the bed, it'll stop Biggs dragging it."

The guys who'd been so reluctant to get close enough to Biggs to wake him seemed to have no qualms about sitting on the bed while Biggs dragged it, further affirming Bucky's belief that soldiers really were just big goddamn kids. Two privates hopped onto the bed, and they were joined by Franklin and Davies. It slowed Biggs, but it didn't stop him, not even when his arms were pulled backwards by the weight of the bed and it looked like they might be wrenched out of their sockets.

"This isn't working," Wells pointed out.

Bucky stood beside his friend as they considered the situation. The four guys on the bed were having a great time pretending they were doing the world's slowest tobogganing, but if Biggs managed to get out, he'd be a problem. The MPs and their K9 units would probably not believe a sleepwalking story, especially since the 107th had garnered a reputation for bullshit thanks to the whole coffee-stirring incident and Wells generally being Wells.

"We gotta tackle him back, onto the bed," Bucky suggested. "Then we can hold his arms and legs down, so he can't move."

Wells nodded. "Alright. Fellas, prepare to jump off the bed. Carrot, you'll be in charge of tackling Biggs."

"Why me, Sarge?" Carrot asked, his blue eyes wide and as nervous as Gusty's.

"You're the tallest, it'll be easier for you."

"But I don't know how to tackle a guy, Sarge!"

"Just pretend you're scrapping," Bucky told him.

"My mom would kill me if I got into a scrap."

"You've never been in a fight?"

"Not me," Carrot told him proudly.

Bucky looked to Wells, who shook his head disbelievingly and offered a new suggestion.

"You and I approximately make up the size of Biggs. If you grab his right shoulder, and I grab his left, we can probably push him back and hold him down."

Bucky transferred his gaze back to Biggs. The guy was like a small mountain. He and Wells had a height advantage, but in terms of mass, there probably wasn't much difference. Still, it wasn't as if they had any other choice; switching on the lights had failed to wake Biggs, the sound of speaking hadn't woken him, nor had physical resistance. It was this, or the MPs.

"On three?" he offered, and Wells nodded. "One… two… three!"

"You didn't go," Wells pointed out, after neither of them had moved.

"Neither did you."

"Alright, really on three this time. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Bucky nodded. He took a deep breath and geared himself up for the charge as Wells gave the count.

"Three… two… one!"

Together they grabbed Biggs' wrists and shoulders and pushed back, trying to force him down onto the camp bed. The guy really was as strong as an ox, and Bucky felt his muscles groan in complaint as he pushed with all his strength. Biggs merely leant his weight forward, and pushed back. Wells grumbled a swift litany of profanities that made Carrot's ears turn red.

"Sweep his legs," Wells growled. They'd managed to stop Biggs going forward, but Bucky could feel the guy's muscles tensed in a push, and he suspected he and Wells would get tired before Biggs did.

Bucky reached out with his leg, hooking it around the back of Biggs' knees, and as he and Wells gave one last concerted push, the pivot motion finally toppled the big guy. He went back onto the camp bed, causing the four guys on it to scramble with frightened yelps at the sight of the avalanche of Biggs bearing down on them. But although Biggs was down, he definitely wasn't out. He tried to get to his feet again, and almost dragged Bucky and Wells up with him.

"Everybody pile on!" Bucky instructed.

And they took it literally. Carrot and Davies pinned down his left leg; Franklin and Gusty, the right. Tipper flung his scrawny self across Biggs' barrel-chest, and it proved to be the straw that broke the camel's back. The camp bed, on which seven guys were dog-piled, finally decided it had been tortured enough, and collapsed in a deathly squeal of conquered metal, dropping them all six inches to the floor.

Biggs' eyes flew open. "Whu—what—?" His eyes went frantically from Bucky's face to Wells'. "S—Sarge? I can't move my legs!"

"That's because half of the 107th are sat on them, you goddamn idiot," Wells scowled. "Couldn't you have woken up five minutes ago?"

"What's going on?" Poor Biggs. He looked as confused and frightened as a child who'd just woken up from night terrors.

"Don't worry about it, Private," Bucky told him, giving his shoulder a reassuring pat. "You were just sleepwalking again."

"Oh no. I didn't bake any cakes, did I?"

Bucky grinned, then pulled Wells up off the private. He could tell his friend's already stretched patience was wearing thin.

"Why couldn't it be Tipper who sleepwalks?" Wells grumbled, as everyone began to return to their own beds and Biggs sat looking at the twisted metal carcass of his. "A gentle breeze could fell that guy. But no, it's gotta be the goddamn cake-baking man-mountain."

"Go easy on him, it's not his fault."

The only response was an incoherent grumble as he yanked his blanket over his shoulders and settled down to sleep. The following day, Biggs went down to the quartermaster to requisition a new bed, and Bucky went with him because Biggs was a terrible liar. Bucky told the quartermaster that the bed frame had already been damaged when the 107th got there, and that Biggs had simply been too big for it.

He suspected the quartermaster didn't entirely believe him, but that was the price you sometimes had to pay for being in the 107th. At least one good thing came from the incident; that night, there was no shortage of men offering belts to keep Biggs strapped to his bed, so the guy didn't get the chance to do any clandestine baking.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

By the seventh day, a rumour had spread around the camp that everyone in E-section, and a quarter of the regiments from other sections, were being shipped out the next day. There was a frantic last-minute scramble for trade, especially for Gusty's books, and Sergeant Murphy made the rounds with his camera, taking pictures of groups from the various regiments out front of their barracks. The camera wouldn't be allowed overseas, but Murphy had already made arrangements to send it home. _Memories for the future,_ he called it.

The mere thought of the start of the two-week sea voyage was enough to make Bucky's stomach churn with excitement and nerves, but he tried not to let it show, for two reason.

The first reason was that he felt he had to set a good example for the lower ranked enlisted men, especially since the only other example they had to look to was Wells. At least two thirds of the guys in the 107th were under twenty-three years old, and half of them were under twenty-one. Those like Tipper, who were on the _very_ young end of the scale, reminded Bucky all too often of his younger brother, Charlie. Technically, Charlie was almost eligible to enlist, and Bucky liked to think that if he ever did sign up, he'd have someone to watch over him in lieu of his absent big brother.

The second reason he didn't let his excitement show, was that he didn't know where the rumour had originated from. In Camp Shanks, rumours spread faster than VD through a port full of sailors on shore leave, and with each retelling the rumour was changed, or twisted, or embellished. Bucky got the rumour at least eleventh-hand, from Tipper who heard it from Gusty who heard it from a corporal from the Screaming Eagles, who overheard a guy from the 9th Cavalry telling it to a nurse, who'd also heard it from one of the AA Divisions from C-section, and so the trail went on. For hours he had to put up with members of the 107th sidling up to him and quietly asking if he knew for sure they were being shipped out, and each time he gave them the same response; he hadn't been told anything, and as soon as he heard anything for sure, he would pass it on.

"Did you start that rumour?" he asked Wells.

Bucky's fellow sergeant had managed to avoid being pestered by curious servicemen by taking refuge in the shade of a tree near the shower block, where he was lounging against the trunk, either engrossed in reading his book, or faking it pretty well. Bucky had joined him just after midday, when he got fed up of giving the same answer to the same faces over and over again. It was one of those hot midsummer days, stifling with no breeze at all. Even from here, Bucky could smell the salty brine of the ocean. Just about everyone in camp had given up wearing their jackets, with only the most regimental and serious of brown-nosers still sticking to etiquette.

"I didn't start any rumours," said Wells absently, his eyes skimming the pages of his book. "'Cept that one about the quartermaster's boots. Have you heard that one yet?" Bucky shook his head. "I'm sure you'll find it amusing, when you do."

"If you didn't start the rumour, who did?"

Wells shrugged. "9th Cavalry, probably. They're jerks. You know they've had it in for us ever since we beat their asses at darts."

"What if it's true?"

"If it's true?" Wells' blue eyes danced up momentarily to Bucky's face. "Then it ceases to be rumour and instead becomes fact."

"I guess." The very idea made his stomach squirm again. "Are you ready for—"

Movement on the periphery of his vision stopped the words dead in his mouth. Two MPs were striding with purpose towards E-6. They went into the barrack, then came out a moment later with Private James Hawkins between them.

As they escorted him away, that squirming feeling in Bucky's stomach turned into a sinking feeling. Hawkins must'a done something bad, to be escorted anywhere by MPs. Bucky didn't know Hawkins that well, but he was one of the kids who'd signed up, a fresh-faced eighteen year old who, unlike Tipper, actually was eighteen. Another rank-and-filer who did his job without question or complaint and never had a bad word to say about anyone.

He looked to Wells, who put away his book, and they both grabbed their jackets and dusted them off as they jogged towards the MPs. Bucky knew better than to get in their way, so he and Wells strode along beside them. He didn't know their names, because the camp staff and the soldiers waiting for embarkation didn't mingle much, but the guy's rank insignia was clear on his jacket sleeve.

"What's going on, Corporal?"

"That would be none of your business, Sergeant," the MP replied. Bucky forced his fingers to stay loose instead of twitching up into fists like they wanted. Camp staff always thought they were better than the personnel who passed through.

"When someone's escorting one of my men somewhere without consulting me first, I make it my business."

"Then you'll have to take that up with the General."

Bucky aimed another look at Wells, and received an echo of his own worry in his friend's eyes. He'd never seen the General of the camp. Had never met anyone who'd seen the General. Some even claimed that there _was_ no General, that the camp was just overseen by a bunch of bureaucratic administrators who'd invented up a fake General so they could pass their own camp rules… though Bucky suspected that might've been one of Wells' rumours.

The administration barracks was guarded by MPs, so Bucky and Wells weren't allowed in. They could only wait out in the glaring sun with feigned patience, hoping that their fellow 107th member hadn't done anything too serious.

They only had to wait five minutes, and when Hawkins reappeared, Bucky froze right down to his bone marrow. He'd seen that look before, on the face of a First World War veteran, a friend of his father who'd been in the thickest of the trench-fighting. They called it the thousand-yard stare, because a guy who'd seen too much could sometimes see too far whilst seeing nothing at all. Hawkins' baby-face had that stare, his hazel eyes both farseeing and turned within. His face was white, his lips grey and bloodless, and in one hand he clutched a small slip of paper.

"Private Hawkins, what's happened?" Bucky asked him.

The young man held out the piece of paper, then set off back, unseeing and with a weary trudge, to E-section. Bucky read the slip.

' _It is my great regret to inform that Sergeant Andrew Hawkins of the 66th Armor Regiment was killed in action on 12th June 1943 whilst in the performance of his duties. To Private James Hawkins, of the 107th Infantry Regiment, younger brother and the sole surviving son of the Hawkins family, shall be extended the offer to be relieved from combat duties and, should he so wish it, to be released from service and returned home to his family._

 _Chief of Staff, Gen. G. Marshall._ _'_

To Bucky, family was everything. He couldn't even begin to comprehend what Hawkins must be going through. If someone had just given him a piece of paper telling him Charlie had died, he would have been devastated. Completely and utterly crushed. It would have shattered his world.

He passed the slip to Wells, who read it silently then looked how Bucky felt. Suddenly, the hot June air was much colder than it had been five minutes ago.

"Shit," Wells said, keeping hold of the slip of paper since Hawkins didn't look in any condition to take it back. It was a wonder he could even walk in a straight line. "Hawkins, I'm so sorry for your loss. And that you had to find out like this."

Hawkins merely nodded numbly. For the first time since signing his name on the papers which made him a part of the U.S. Army, Bucky felt completely, utterly, hopelessly, lost. He'd prepared himself for hardship. He'd prepared himself for deprivation and even pain. But he hadn't prepared himself for how to deal with this sort of personal misfortune. Had Hawkins been Steve, Bucky could've given the guy some reassuring words, perhaps the simple comfort of his presence, or a hand on the shoulder to let him know his pal wasn't in this alone. But Hawkins wasn't Steve. Bucky barely even knew the guy, and now he regretted that he'd spent his past days playing poker and redistributing sugar instead of getting to know some of the men in his regiment a little better.

When they reached E-section, Bucky directed Hawkins to the tree by the shower block, where he could have a little time alone. He didn't think the young man should return to the barracks; not with half the guys there acting the goat and going stir-crazy with heat and boredom. What Hawkins needed was time to think. Time to adapt. And maybe, in two or three years, he would actually be able to think of his brother without seeing the words _killed in action_ swimming on that paper in front of him.

"Let me know if you need anything, Hawkins," he said at last, to the man's glassy, unseeing stare. "Whatever you need. And take your time over this decision. You've got all the time in the world. Don't rush it."

Hawkins shook his head and finally spoke in a voice that sounded as empty as his eyes. "Don't got much time at all, Sarge. We're shipping out tonight. General just told me."

Bucky looked up at Wells, and found a very troubled expression in his friend's eyes. _Tonight_? Rumour said it was tomorrow, and rumour was all it was. Just some rumour started by the 9th Cavalry, or hell, maybe even started by Wells, for all his denials.

Suddenly, Wells set off back to the barracks.

"Where are you going?" Bucky called. He couldn't believe Wells was abandoning him now. Not with Hawkins. Not like this.

"I'll be back in twenty minutes," Wells replied. "Somethin' I gotta do."

Bucky put his friend out of mind and turned back to Hawkins. Whatever Wells was up to—digging up cached sugar packets, trading more smokes, spreading the word about their impending departure—he couldn't be worried about it now. Not with Hawkins looking like he'd just gone through every fire of hell.

"Sit down, Private," he instructed, and watched as Hawkins lowered himself to the ground and sat back against the trunk only recently vacated by Wells. Bucky joined him. He tried to think of something to say. Some words to make Hawkins' loss less painful, to make the situation more _right_. But there could be no words. Hawkins had just lost a piece of his family forever, and he had only a matter of hours to decide whether he wanted to stay with the regiment or go home to the rest of his family. There were no words, so he merely sat, and tried to be present for the guy who'd just lost his big brother.

Wells returned a short time later, furtively making his way back to the shade of the tree with his arms clutched protectively to his chest as if he'd hurt himself. Before Bucky could ask what he'd done now, Wells pulled three bottles of beer from under his jacket, handed one to Bucky and had to physically make Hawkins hold another.

"Sorry it's warm," Wells said, taking the cap off with his teeth then switching it for the unopened bottle in Hawkins' hands. "And kinda weak. It's some sort of Spanish beer that Ramirez gets. I wanted something stronger. There's a moonshine still _somewhere_ on base, but Davies won't tell me where it is, and I haven't been able to find it. Guess we'll have to make do." He lifted his bottle. "To Sergeant Andrew Hawkins. Greater love hath no man than this, than to lay down one's life for his friends."

"What's that from?" Bucky asked, clinking his bottle against the other two and taking a sip.

"John 15:13. Drink up, Private. That's an order."

Hawkins drank, then pulled a face of disgust. "It tastes like piss, Sarge. Warm piss."

"Sorry."

"No… it's fine." Hawkins looked down at the bottle, really _seeing_ something for the first time since stepping out of the camp's HQ. He took a deep, shaky breath. "When I was fifteen, Drew bought a pack of beers, and we went up to the roof of the apartment one night and just lay there, looking up at the night sky, drinking warm beers and blowing smoke rings around the stars. We gave one point for a star, five points for the moon, and ten points for getting a ring around an entire constellation. Drew won, 'cos I wasn't very good at blowing smoke rings back then."

From his pocket, Wells pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Hawkins, who accepted, and then to Bucky, who didn't wanna accept, but did because he kinda felt that blowing smoke rings was part of Hawkins' family tradition, and now his new family had to keep that tradition alive. A packet of matches followed, and they spent several minutes in silence, Hawkins blowing tiny smoke rings into the air, Wells blowing smoke into his bottle possibly to try and make the beer taste better, and Bucky trying not to inhale too much of the smoke because the only other time he'd tried, he'd been twelve and had managed to burn his lungs.

"What do you think I should do, Sarge?" Hawkins asked at last. Wells continued to blow smoke in concentrated silence, so Bucky decided this one was on him.

"I dunno," he said. "If it were me in your place, I'd wanna go home. Be with my folks. Be there for my sisters. You got any sisters, Hawkins?"

He nodded. "One. Betsy. She's the eldest. Twenty-five. Married with two kids."

"You don't know how long it's gonna be before you see your family again, Private." His traitor mind thought the words his mouth couldn't say. _If the war carries on like it has so far, you might_ never _see them again._ "And they don't know how long it's gonna be before they see you. I think if it were me, I'd wanna go and spend time with them. Grieve properly. Remember my brother with the people who knew him best."

"What about you, Sergeant Wells?" asked Hawkins. "What would you do?"

Wells shifted uncomfortably on the ground. "It's not really my place to advise you what to do, Hawkins."

"I just wanna know what _you_ _'d_ do, Sarge."

"Alright." Wells blew out a final puff of smoke and stubbed out the dog-end of his cigarette. He managed to make smoking look effortless. Kinda like how he'd made playing darts, and acquiring a rose, and finding beer on a base with a zero-tolerance policy, look effortless. Bucky suspected that Wells might even make war look effortless. Some guys just had all the luck. "I don't have any sisters, but I got three brothers, all serving right now, somewhere. The way I see it, I came here to do a job. I signed up for a reason. We all did. And that reason doesn't go away just because one of us is lost doing what we believe is right. If it were me, I'd stay. Because if I go running home every time I lose something, or someone… well, that means I've lost sight of the bigger picture. I've lost the very thing I was fighting for in the first place."

Hawkins nodded unhappily. "Thanks, Sarge. If you don't mind, I wanna be alone now."

Bucky didn't need a second invitation. He was on his feet as swiftly as decorum would allow, with Wells only a hair in front of him. Hawkins had been holding it together pretty well—better than Bucky thought he would have done, under the circumstances—but beer and memory and sympathy had finally broken through the shock. Hawkins needed to grieve, and accept, and make a decision, within the space of about twelve hours. And if his decision was to stay, this might be the only mourning period afforded to him.

Neither he nor Wells spoke as they returned to the barracks, and it was only a couple of hours later, when he was polishing his boots and Wells was reading his book, that he finally addressed the elephant in the room.

"So. Shipping out tonight. Allegedly. I wonder why nobody's said anything."

"Probably to stop word gettin' out," Wells shrugged. "If everyone thinks we might be going tomorrow, nobody will be expecting it tonight. Misinformation. Leave us in the dark for as long as possible, and lay false trails to see who picks them up."

"You really think the brass is that paranoid?"

"I think they need to be."

Bucky gave no further reply. Despite Wells' reputation for hyperbole, he had the unpleasant feeling that his friend wasn't actually bullshitting this time.


	4. A Man Alone

_Author_ _'s note: Giant-sized thanks to everyone reading and reviewing so far! Now, let's take a very brief interlude to see what's going on with this guy._

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _4\. A Man Alone_

 _22nd June, 1943_

Project Rebirth was dead.

Steven Rogers had watched it die. Held it in his hands as it passed away. Felt the air of its last breath taken. Doctor Abraham Erskine was gone, and with him went America's hope for a swift end to the war.

He'd never known his father. What little he knew of the man he would have called 'Dad' came from the infrequent stories his mom had told him when, as a child too young to understand the pain and permanency of loss, he'd asked, _'Why don't I have a dad, like everyone else?'_ From his mom's stories, he'd gleaned that his dad had been a strong, caring man who'd shouldered the weight of responsibility well after being called up to go to war. He'd been a man who'd known his duty and done it, even though he'd regretted letting it take him away from his young family.

All his life, Steve had tried to be a son his dad could be proud of. It was hard, not knowing what would make Dad proud, but he'd tried his best. Given to those more needy, stood up for those whose voices were too quiet to be heard, and he'd tried his hardest to excel at everything he put his mind to. For the most part, he felt he'd succeeded. He had a nice job doing something he loved, his school grades had been excellent despite his frequent, health-related absences, and his college tutors had praised his skill with pencil and paint alike.

There was only one area where he'd let Dad down. One thing about himself that Steve, until now, hadn't been able to change: a frail physique brought on by a long list of medical conditions and childhood maladies. All his life he'd been standing up to bullies, but sometimes it felt like his own body was the worst bully around, and standing up to it wasn't as easy as taking a few punches from some tough-guy's fists. No matter how much he ate, no matter how hard he worked out, or how often he practised boxing down at the club owned by Bucky's dad, he just couldn't gain an ounce of muscle. Couldn't even gain an ounce of fat. His arms had been beanpoles at five years old, and at twenty-five, they were the same poles, only a little longer.

Few and far between were the people who were willing to spend the effort looking beyond his outside, to the person he was within. Inside, he felt like a giant. A giant confined to a frail prison of sickly flesh. Bucky had made the effort when they'd been kids, because that was who Bucky was; even at nine years old, he'd been the kinda guy who saw a little deeper, and took the time to get to know people for who they really were. Bucky's family had been an extension of that, but as far as the rest of New York was concerned, Steve Rogers was an insignificant annoyance. He'd long ago given up with girls, because he hated seeing the pity and disappointment he saw in their eyes when they looked at him. Mary-Ann had been different. She'd had a crush on him since they were kids. But Mary-Ann was Bucky's sister, and like a sister to Steve, too.

In Erskine, he'd found someone who, like Bucky, took the time to look beneath the surface, to the person he was inside. But in Erskine, he felt something more. Like he'd finally found someone who looked at him like a father might look at a son; with fondness and hope, and even pride. Every time Steve had glanced at Erskine as he watched the candidates put through their paces, he'd seen a small smile on the doctor's face, and it seemed to Steve that Erskine's tiny nods of encouragement came most often when Steve was at his most aching, exhausted and bruised. Erskine never lifted a finger to help him, of course, because that wouldn't have been fair to the other recruits, but just _knowing_ the man was there, silently encouraging him, willing him on despite the physical prowess of the other candidates, gave Steve the strength he needed to keep taking one more agonising breath, to find something in him to manage another push-up, to scale that damned cargo net that seemed determined to catch him out.

Now, Erskine was gone, and Steve didn't even know whether he'd left any family behind. Whether he had kids of his own; kids that he'd given nods and smiles of encouragement to when they needed it, just like he had for Steve. All he really knew about the doctor was that he'd been a good man weighed down by the guilt of the monster he had created. That, in Steve, he'd hoped to right the wrongs he had been forced to commit in the past. And the last thing Erskine had done, with his final drop of strength, had been to remind Steve that he, too, was a good man.

Warm tears stung his eyes. For the first time in his life, he was experiencing a complete reversal of his self. Always, before, he'd been bigger on the inside than he had on the outside. Always, before, it felt like there wasn't enough of his body to contain his spirit. And now… now, he had a body men would kill for. Literally. He was tall, he was broad-shouldered, he was incredibly strong, and he could out-run cars. But on the inside? On the inside, he felt like the frail, weedy Steve Rogers who'd needed to be rescued from bullies by his best friend. For the first time in his life, he was strong enough to take on the bullies alone… but he wished more than anything that Bucky was with him, to offer some words of consolation, or a reassuring thump on the arm; a clap on the shoulder just to let Steve know that _he was there_.

Strong as he was, he hadn't been able to stop Erskine getting shot. He hadn't been able to use his strength to save the man who'd given him a new purpose. A new life. He hadn't even been able to use his strength to stop the man who'd shot the doctor from crunching a cyanide pill and ending his life before he could be interrogated. For all of his new strength, he'd failed terribly, today.

 _Knock knock knock._

At the sound from his bedroom door, he brushed the stinging, salty tears from his eyes and sniffed deeply a couple of times to clear his sinuses from that _need to cry, stuffed with cotton wool_ feeling. "Come in," he called.

He'd been expecting another medic, come to take more blood, or perhaps one of the hotel staff enquiring if he need anything. When Agent Peggy Carter walked in instead, he bolted to his feet and tried to smooth a crease out of his shirt. For one brief, dizzying moment, he thought Agent Carter had shrunk. He very nearly bent his knees a little, to try and put himself at her height. This whole _being taller_ situation was going to take a heck of a lot of getting used to.

"How are you, Steve?" Agent Carter asked. He could see the shock and sadness of the earlier violence still etched onto her face, echoing from the depths of her dark brown eyes. She'd known Erskine, had worked with him and beside him, for much longer than Steve had. And she'd had so much invested in the SSR, in Project Rebirth, that she had to be feeling this loss as painfully as a physical blow. That the first thing she asked was how _he_ was doing, made him feel warm inside.

"I'm… well… I don't honestly know," he admitted. "I guess I'm a little of everything."

She gave a brief, sympathetic nod. "That's understandable. So much has happened recently; I can only imagine how lost you feel."

 _Lost_. That summed it up perfectly. In the space of a week, everything had changed. His life had been turned upside down, and Steve felt like he'd been turned inside out. The world had moved on, and for the first time in a long time, Steve had moved with it. Bucky was gone, probably already halfway to England by now. Mary-Ann was in Baltimore, doing her bit building the Liberty Fleet. Charlie was off to college. Doctor Erskine was dead, and Colonel Phillips was shipping out for Europe, taking Agent Carter with him. Steve was now… new. Improved. _Better._ He finally felt like the son his dad could be proud of. And yet, despite the success of the experiment, Steve was once again being told _'No.'_ Phillips' words came bounding back through his mind.

 _You are not enough._

Was that why, six hours ago, he'd made a crazy decision to accept a spur-of-the-moment offer from a guy he barely knew? Phillips wanted to stick him in some lab, turn him into a rat. But Steve wanted—no; _needed_ —something more than to spend the rest of his life in a maze, endlessly chasing cheese. Senator Brandt had offered him that chance, and though Phillips had gnashed his teeth and grumbled loudly and even thrown around a few cuss words, he didn't have enough political pull to go against one of the few senators actively promoting the SSR's agenda on Capitol Hill. The colonel couldn't afford to upset the man who might pull committee funding away from the division if he didn't get his way. So, Phillips had cut his losses and let Steve go. _Probably thinks I_ _'m more trouble than I'm worth._

"You probably think I'm being foolish," he said. "Agreeing to go with Brandt without first reading the fine print. Without even reading the large print, actually…"

"'Foolish' would never be high on the list of words I would use to describe you, Steve," Agent Carter assured him.

It was a relief. Most of his adult life, he hadn't cared too much about what dames thought of him. Now, he cared. Not about what dames in general thought of him, but about what _Agent Carter_ thought of him. It wasn't just that she was pretty. 'Pretty' was an understatement. She was beautiful, and graceful, and self-assured, and competent… and no matter where she went, she had guys drooling over her. There had been times, in the barracks at Camp Lehigh, that he'd wanted nothing more than to punch one or two of the recruits—Hodge, in particular—for their lewd suggestiveness. They didn't say anything to Agent Carter's face, of course; she'd already proven she had a mean right hook. But at nights, after lights-out, they talked, and Steve didn't care for some of the things they said.

No, it wasn't that Agent Carter was beautiful. It was that when he looked into her eyes, he thought he saw something in them. Something that said she was looking at a man she wanted to see succeed. A man who was _more_ than the sum of his parts. And she'd looked at him that way even before the experiment's success. _That_ was why he cared about what she thought of him.

"I know how desperate you are," she continued. "I just hope you're not setting yourself up to be let down."

"You think Senator Brandt is gonna renege on his promise to let me serve?"

"I don't know." She gestured questioningly to the chair opposite the bed that now felt too small for him. The SSR had put him up in a hotel near the lab, and tomorrow he'd be heading to Washington with Brandt. When Steve nodded, Agent Carter sat and crossed her legs, managing to look elegant even doing _that_. "Senator Brandt has been a generous benefactor—" a hint of irritation crept into her cultured accent, "—despite his propensity for putting important reports aside instead of reading them. But when it comes down to it, he is a politician, and in my experience, politicians rarely act purely out of altruism. Every politician has their own agenda, and I've found it prudent to question the motives of somebody who's offering me the very thing I've always wanted. If it sounds too good to be true, it usually is."

"Usually, but not always. Doctor Erskine's formula proved that something can sound too good to be true, but still be real," he reminded her.

"Yes." The smile she offered was weak; one for show, more than anything. "But remember this: Doctor Erskine's formula is only as good as the man it is put into. That's why he picked you. He wanted only the best."

"Thank you. For everything. I know the decision was never yours, but I'm certain Doctor Erskine wouldn't have picked me if you offered objections."

"Then it's a good job I only wanted the best, too," she said, and for a moment he got completely lost in her eyes. Drowned in them a little, until she stood and surreptitiously smoothed a crease from her skirt. "I have to go. It's getting late, and we have an early flight. I just wanted to say goodbye, and to wish you luck for the future; whatever it may bring."

He jumped to his feet, hovering between hanging back to delay her departure, and chivalrously reaching for the door. After a moment of swaying on the spot like some booze-hound on an all-night bender, he opted for the door. But he positioned himself a little inside it, so that it didn't look like he was trying to usher her out. Or… was that the wrong place to stand? The Steve of twelve hours ago wouldn't have been any obstacle, but the Steve of now was so large that Agent Carter would have to go sideways to pass by him. _Idiot, you can_ _'t make a dame brush past you like that!_ He quickly stepped away, to stand by the side of the door. Forgot to leave his hand on it, and it swung closed.

"Sorry," he offered, feeling a blush creeping up his neck, willing it desperately to stay down there, away from his cheeks. "I'm still getting used to being… well… bigger. Bed's too small, shoes don't fit anymore, doors are… awkward." _No, idiot, it_ _'s just you who's awkward_. Thank God Bucky wasn't here. His best friend had always despaired over his lack of social grace where dames were concerned. If Bucky was here now, he'd be in stitches over this.

Agent Carter accepted his explanation with a knowing smile. A little _too_ knowing.

"Don't rush it, Steve. You'll quickly get used to the world being a little smaller than it was yesterday. Your motor control will adapt soon enough."

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, I'm sure you're right." He reached for the door again, and managed to stand beside it and hold it open without further embarrassing himself.

"Take care of yourself, Steve." Agent Carter stepped up in front of him, and his heart skipped a beat. Two beats. Three beats. Ah, there it went, beating normally again. And he realised something, then. She was even more beautiful, from up here. "I know how badly you want to get to the front lines, but I would hate to see you come to harm."

He nodded. "Can't let anything happen to the SSR's new asset, right?"

"You're not an asset; you're a man. And the moment you stop believing that, is the day that Doctor Erskine—and his vision—truly dies."

Her words felt like a dagger plunged into his chest, and drew a thin veneer of tears across his eyes. Maybe she was right. For as long as he lived as the man Erskine had wanted him to be, the doctor's work, his sacrifice, had not been in vain. He had to remember that. Failure meant letting Doctor Erskine down. Betraying his memory. And that was unacceptable.

"Maybe I'll see you out there," he offered, to stall the tears.

"Maybe."

The moment seemed to hang, stretching on for an eternity. It was an eternity filled with a pair of deep brown eyes that seemed to peer into his soul and see all the things he was trying to hide; the fear, the sadness, the loneliness…

And then the moment ended. Agent Carter was stepping through the door. Walking down the corridor. Glancing briefly over her shoulder to offer a farewell smile. And Steve was left holding the door whilst, for the millionth time in his life, opportunity passed him by.

When he finally remembered to close the door, he let it swing shut, and returned to the bed. It really was too small. As he lay back with his head on the pillow, his feet dangled over the end. Subconsciously, his fingers went to the pocket of his shirt; pulled a chain from it; toyed with the small, round bit of silver hanging there. Familiarity took his fingertips to the clasp, but his fingers were, for the first time in forever, too large to work it one-handed. He had to use his left hand to hold the silver whilst his right hand worked the clasp, and when it finally fell open like a clam revealing its pearl, he looked at two tiny pictures; a blonde-haired, smiling woman in the left half, and a dark-haired, smiling man in the right.

"Hi Mom," he whispered. "Hi Dad. It's… it's gonna be a while before I can come and see you again. But before I go, I'll leave orders with the florist. Get him to put out a new wreath, every month. Just until I can get back and start doing it myself again. I know you're lookin' out for me, but I wish you were here. Both of you. Everything's changing, and that's good. But… everything's changing, and that's scary. I don't even have Bucky anymore, to talk things through with. He's gone off to Europe, to fight the good fight. I don't know when I'll see him again. Tomorrow, if I had my way. But something tells me I'm not gonna get my way. Then again, that's nothing new, right?"

He paused, letting his eyes linger over the familiar face of his late mother, and the stranger's face of his father. When he was a kid, he'd taken his mother for granted. She'd always been there, and he knew she always would be. Then, one day, she wasn't. Not anymore. For the first time in his life, Steve had known what it was like to be alone. And now, he felt that again.

Bucky was gone. Erskine was gone. Phillips and Carter and Stark, all gone. All he had now was a politician's promise that he would soon be serving his country. He didn't know if that was enough, but it would have to be. It was something to cling to, in the emptiness.

"I love you," he said. "Both of you. And I want you to know that, despite all that's happened over this past day, I'm still me. I'm still your Steve. And I'll try my best to always be your Steve. To be a good man. The man that Erskine saw when he looked at me. The man that I know you want me to be."

Bringing the locket to his lips, he kissed it briefly then closed it and put it back into his pocket, where it would be safe. His parents were never far from his heart.

He rolled onto his stomach and let out a deep sigh, trying to relax into the too-small bed and the too-soft mattress. _Family_. All he knew of it was gone. It wasn't supposed to be this way. That was half of the problem. Steve wasn't supposed to be alone in this. He was supposed to be the first of many. There were supposed to be others. Brothers. Good men who'd undergone the same screening process and been selected to undergo Erskine's treatment. The spearhead of an army; that was what he was supposed to be. But the destruction of Erskine's formula meant that there would never be anybody else like Steve. He wasn't just the first of many; he was the first and only.

During the first day of testing, at Camp Lehigh, Colonel Phillips had said that every army starts with one man… but it wasn't supposed to end with him. Steve was both the beginning, and the end. He was the experiment come full circle, and there was nobody else like him in the world. Nobody he could talk to. Nobody he could compare experiences with. Nobody he could turn to for advice.

Now, he was truly alone.


	5. Monticello

We Were Soldiers

 _5\. Monticello_

It happened just after midnight.

The lights in E-6 came on and the door was flung open by a camp sergeant who roused the 107th with an order to be dressed and assembled outside the barracks in fifteen minutes. A mad scramble ensued. Not wanting to add to the rumours, Bucky had purposely avoided mentioning their imminent departure to the rest of the 107th, so at least half the regiment were completely unprepared for such swift action. The half who'd actually put a little stock into the gossip had already packed some of their gear away, but there was still a lot of work to be done in a very short time.

Some leapt out of bed, some stumbled groggily, but within five minutes, they were all dressed. Spare clothes were rolled up into their duffels, and their backpacks were checked to ensure their field kits, mess kits, first aid kits, cleaning kits, entrenching tools and spare ammo were packed away, along with books, spare paper, pens, envelopes, and other important personal items. Sleeping rolls were lashed to the top, adding another six inches of height to the large bags.

Beds were unmade, blankets and sheets were folded up, and pillows were pulled out of their cases. When everything in the barracks had been returned to the way they'd found it, the men fastened their gear onto themselves and their comrades. The bayonet knives and sidearms were threaded onto belts. Rifles were slung diagonally across the shoulders to allow backpacks to be carried comfortably. Bulky gas masks were carried on their straps hanging from the neck, and the heavy, uncomfortable steel helmets were worn for the first time as they were intended to be. By the time the regiment had assembled with their heavy duffels outside the barracks, they resembled not so much a group of soldiers, but pack mules.

As Bucky joined Wells at the head of the formation, the thing that most struck him was the silence. Eighty men should have made more noise than the occasional quiet coughs and throat-clearings which reached his ears. The silence was accompanied by a tension in the air, heavy as thunder and sharp as lightning. It seemed to crackle off the top of the steel helmets, and the straight-backed rigidness of the 107th told Bucky they all felt it as much as he.

The same sergeant returned to issue another command.

"You're to take your men to the south gate and await further instruction."

Neither of them asked why. One of the first things you learnt in boot camp was not to ask stupid questions, and 'why' was the stupidest question in the army. There was only one answer that could ever be given to that question: _'Because I said so.'_ On his first day of Basic at Camp McCoy, Bucky had seen one guy chewed out for twenty minutes for daring to ask 'why?', and then the unfortunate recruit been given laps, and then push-ups, and he'd spent the entire next day assigned to latrine duty. They camp drill sergeants had made a harsh lesson outta that guy, and since then, nobody had been dumb enough to ask it.

Down at the south gate, they found themselves standing in line behind one of the Signal brigades, and the Screaming Eagles fell in behind them a few moments later, headed by Sgt. Murphy and another sergeant whose name Bucky couldn't recall. Like the 107th, the 101st Airborne looked tense, and he was glad it wasn't just his own regiment feeling the pressure.

They waited for half an hour. His dad had told him that fifty percent of war was waiting, forty percent was marching, and maybe ten percent was actually fighting. When the waiting was finally over, they found themselves—unsurprisingly—marching. They hadn't been told where they were going, just that they should follow, and that was pretty much what Bucky had been expecting, too.

It was a couple of miles to Piermont. A couple of long, weary miles. It wasn't a particularly hot night, but weighed down by their heavy gear, each wearing as many layers of clothes as they could manage to save room in their duffels for personal items, the troops felt every Fahrenheit of that trek. They encountered not a single vehicle on the road, which was lit only by the silvery light of the lunar orb. The moonlight glinted off the tops of the steel helmets, giving the impression of a giant silver snake winding its way down the road in front of him. When he took a moment to glance back, he couldn't even see the snake's tail.

The smell of brine and seaweed grew stronger, blown inland by the offshore breeze, and pretty soon they found themselves arriving at a port. Like the road, it was in darkness, and a large ship was berthed at the dock. At least, Bucky _thought_ it was a large ship. With its hull painted grey and its deck a dark blue, it was hard to judge its size. The moonlight didn't so much illuminate the vessel, as obscure it.

In the port, there was more waiting. Again, it was the small sounds which stood out. The coughs. The clanging of rifles against helmets. The shuffle of feet. The whispers of men who did not dare to raise their voices. The lap of water against the creaky wooden dock. A steady _thud, thud, thud_ , turned out to be the sound of Bucky's blood pulsing through his body, the noise made louder by the echoing confines of his steel helmet.

When the line began to move, _the thud, thud, thud_ increased in tempo. Standing on his tiptoes to peer over the heads in front of him, he saw the steel snake disappearing into a dark hole in the side of the ship, and as they shuffled closer, he saw that the hole was actually a door, only wide enough for the men to walk two abreast. He'd never been on a ship before—the small sailing and rowing boats he'd tried out on quiet tributaries of the Hudson didn't count—and he watched with eager fascination as the vessel swallowed the regiments in front. The recruitment posters had always shown men walking up a gangplank onto the deck, in broad daylight and warm sunshine, waving to their loved ones who'd come to see them off, while a marching band on the docks played a farewell concert.

 _This is nothing like the posters._

It wasn't the first time he'd had the thought. He'd had it before, at Camp McCoy, whilst knee-deep in an assault course that had been churned to mud by the thousands of feet that had come before his. It had rained, that day. He'd been weighed down by his sodden clothes, and his rifle—just a dummy, thank God—had slipped from his grip a half-dozen times. Everybody got chewed out on that course, and that was something else the posters never showed; the mean-spirited, slave-driving, mouth-foaming drill sergeants. If the posters had shown the army as it really he was, he doubted they'd get half as many volunteers.

The regiment ahead of the 107th stopped, and a man dressed in a nautical uniform called out, "101st Airborne, 9th Infantry, 107th Infantry, 46th Engineers, 93rd Signals, you will proceed onto the ship and follow your escort to your designated sleeping area."

It was the only instruction they received. The snake moved forward towards the dark hole, and suddenly the ship was _there_ , looming so near that its closeness surprised him. It may not have been the size of a luxury ocean liner, but it looked pretty damn big. Painted onto the grey hull, in huge black letters, was the name, _USS Monticello._

As the dark, gaping maw of the door appeared straight ahead, Bucky felt Wells bump into him.

"Watch your footing," he whispered.

"How do they expect us to do this when we can't see a damn thing?" his fellow sergeant grumbled.

Bucky had no answer. Sometimes, 'how' was an even dumber question than 'why'.

They stepped inside, and suddenly everything felt closer, hotter, confined. There were lights on the walls, but they only gave out a sickly yellow light paler even than the light of the moon. The trudging became more clamorous as boots landed heavily on metal, and with so many feet moving at once, the whole floor seemed to vibrate, shaking in time to the march. Bucky swallowed the lump rising in his throat, and sent a silent prayer that this ship's decks had been reinforced enough to hold the weight of all the soldiers it was taking on.

The ship went on forever. Bucky had known the vessel was big, but he hadn't known there was so much of it. The insides of the ship were an endless labyrinth of metal corridors, each identical to the last. The 107th and the regiments with them were taken on a dreamlike trek through the vessel's bowels, until eventually they stepped out into an area just a few metres wide that stretched on as far as the eye could see. The long room's sole defining feature could be summed up in a single word: hammocks.

They were like suspended bunks, hung two-high from a metal frame built between the ceiling and the floor, running down either side of the room. There was space of only a metre between the two rows, a narrow gangway through which men poured. Further down the room, the men who'd already arrived were claiming their hammocks and storing their gear as best as they were able.

Bucky selected a hammock a couple away from the next regiment, and decided it was a fine enough place for the 107th to call home.

"Might as well get comfortable," he told the rest of the men. "It'll probably take a while for the rest of the troops to be brought aboard. If you can get a few hours of sleep, do."

Around him, the rest of the regiment began hoisting off their heavy backpacks and claiming beds of their own. Bucky studied the upper hammock of the pair he'd picked. It barely looked sturdy enough to hold a child, much less a man.

"There is no way you're having the top hammock," Wells said, standing beside him and looking at the two flimsy lengths of material that were to serve as their beds for the next two weeks.

"Why not?"

"I don't want your heavy ass falling out and landing on me."

"I'm not heavy," he shot.

"Heavier than me. Have you ever even slept in a hammock before?"

"Like you _have?_ "

Wells gave him an obsequious smile and gestured at the uppermost hammock. "By all means, be my guest."

He hated when Wells got that smug look on his face; it meant that he knew he was right about something and was gonna enjoy being proven right. But Bucky could hardly back down now. Besides, he wasn't heavy.

Shrugging off his pack, he dumped his helmet, rifle, gas mask and duffel on the floor, then placed both hands on the hammock and hoisted himself up. For a moment, he thought he was fine, but he was actually just precariously well-balanced. As soon as he moved, to try and get his legs into the hammock, he slipped over the other side, banged his head on the wall, and landed flat on his back on the cold metal floor. Wells peered over the hammock and looked down at him, and he didn't say a damn word.

"Alright, you can have the top hammock," Bucky relented.

Wells made hammocking look effortless. Bucky wasn't the only one to have had a spill; most of the guys taking the top hammocks took two or three tries before they could get in, and there were even men who couldn't get into the bottom hammocks without falling out. At least Bucky managed to avoid _that_ embarrassment.

The makeshift sleeping quarters suffered the same sickly yellow lighting as the corridors, and the guys who had beds next to and below the lights quickly realised how lucky they were. Being next to a light meant you could actually read the words in a book, write a letter, or find things in your pack. For the next hour or so, there was lots of reshuffling as soldiers bartered for the coveted spots nearest the lights.

Bucky didn't particularly care; he was too tired to move now. Knowing they were shipping out that night had kept him awake until late, and he'd only managed an hour of sleep before being woken for departure. Now he lay in his hammock, only a few inches off the floor, and simply listened to the quiet chatter of the men around him.

When his mind finally gave in to tiredness, he dozed in and out sleep. He had a strange dream in which he was sleeping in the air, suspended on a fluffy cloud, no hard mattress to support him. He woke with a start, tensing, ready to hit the ground… but the hammock was around him, and he was safe.

When he heard a quiet, rhythmic creaking, he looked up and saw the hammock above swinging gently from side to side. He had no idea what Wells was doing to make it swing—and he probably didn't wanna know—but suddenly, the chance to inflict a little payback on his friend was too tempting an opportunity to miss. He aimed his finger at an area he thought was probably right in the middle of Wells' back, and gave the hammock above a swift, sharp poke.

"Fuckin' hell, Barnes!" Wells shouted, as he jolted upright and his hammock stopped swinging. His yell drew a few curious and amused glances. "Don't do that."

Bucky laughed. "What're you doing?"

"Well, I _was_ reading. Now I'm having a fuckin' heart attack."

"No, I mean, why are you swinging?"

"I find it relaxing. Having somebody's finger jabbed into my spine… now, that's not relaxing at all."

"How do you make it swing?"

"Just put your left foot against the wall and push."

He gave a gentle push and felt his hammock swing. Wells was right; it was relaxing. Soon enough he was dozing again, and the quiet murmur of voices fell away.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The next morning—or rather, later that morning—one of the ship's crew appeared to provide an update. All of the troops were now aboard, supplies for the voyage had been stowed, and the ship would be weighing anchor within the hour. For the rest of the day, while the _Monticello_ was in sight of the coast as it headed down for the Gulf Stream, only the crew would be allowed on deck. After that, soldiers could go up on deck in half-hour slots throughout the day, and no man would be allowed on deck without a life jacket.

Shower and bathroom facilities were at the fore of the ship on the third deck, while the galley and mess were on deck two. Food was served twice per day, in the morning and the late afternoon, and the men were expected to eat as quickly as possible; loitering would not be tolerated.

Large sections of the ship, including the bridge, the storage hold, the communications room and the engine room, were off-limits to troops. Smoking below deck was forbidden. In the event of the ship taking on water, the men were to make their way in an orderly fashion to the outside deck, don life jackets and board the lifeboats. The crewman then gave them long, convoluted directions to the galley, and left them to contemplate everything he'd told them.

"Why would the ship take on water?" asked Carrot, his blue eyes darting nervously around the room. "Aren't they built to be water-tight?"

"Most of these converted troop transports are pretty old," said Wells, rapping his knuckles against the metal wall. "Most of them aren't even U.S.-made. The British donated some, others are French, or Dutch, or Italian, and you can't trust Italian engineering. Ships are metal, and metal rusts. Plus, y'know, U-boats. They're everywhere."

"Right, Sarge. U-boats," Carrot scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"Don't take them lightly, Corporal," Wells warned. "In October 1941, the USS _Reuben James_ was the first U.S. warship sunk sunk by U-boats in this war, and since then we've lost the USCGC _Alexander Hamilton_ , the USS _Jacob Jones_ , the SS _Dorchester_ , the USS _Gannet_ , the USS _Erie_ , the USS _San Francisco_ —thousands of troops lost on that one—, the USS _Atik_ , the USS _Leedstown_ , the USS _Joseph Hewes_ —"

"I get the point."

Sgt. Murphy from the 101st, who was nearby, jumped into the fray, his bushy moustache aquiver.

"Some of the big liners, like the Queen Mary, can outrun U-boats, but most of the older, smaller ships, are too slow, so we'll get an escort. But there's not that much an escort can do to _prevent_ an attack, they can mostly only _react_ to it."

If Carrot looked pale, Tipper looked worse, but when Bucky glanced around the men, he saw Private Hawkins looking like he wished he hadn't decided to stay with the 107th after all; the expression on his face was simultaneously sick and resigned.

"That's enough," Bucky said, before Wells could jump back in with another grim fact. "Look, it's breakfast time, why don't we see what's on offer?"

"I hope it's eggs," Wells sighed.

What had seemed like a good suggestion at the time swiftly became a waking nightmare. Bucky realised his mistake about ten minutes into the trip to the galley, after they'd taken the third wrong turn in the identical-looking gloomy corridors. He should've sent the men up in small groups, instead of bringing the whole regiment. It didn't help that Murphy had decided to bring the Eagles along for breakfast too, so every time they got turned-around, almost two-hundred men had to about-face and make their way back from where they'd just come. The corridors were not only dark, they were also narrow, and there was much grumbling and jostling before they reached their destination.

The galley did not impress. They had to queue for half an hour behind a group of soldiers from some other part of the ship, who'd had the same idea. With only two crewman punching meal cards, it took a painfully long time for the troops to be admitted into the galley, where a dozen or more cooks served breakfast from giant hot metal trays.

There were no eggs. Breakfast was something lumpy and yellowish white that looked like it might have come out of a poorly baby. Further down the long serving counter were slices of charred toast which men were scrambling over each other to get to.

"What's this, oatmeal?" Bucky asked those closest to him.

"Worse," said Wells, pulling a very unimpressed face. "Grits. Hopefully tomorrow's breakfast will be better."

They took their trays to the mess, where they had another unpleasant surprise. There were no tables and no chairs. Just long, shelf-like platforms below chest height at which men ate standing up. At the ends of the platforms were large metal sinks, where trays were to be rinsed before being stacked for taking away. Breakfast was a very muted affair.

Since there was no deck-time, they went straight back to the troop quarters and settled in for a long, tedious journey. Bucky suggested a poker game, and Gusty, Wells and Franklin immediately took him up on his offer, along with Murphy from the 101st and a corporal from the Signals who introduced himself as McNally. Carrot wanted to play, but he still couldn't grasp the hands, so they made him watch instead.

Bucky guessed the ship must be under-weigh by now, because it had taken much longer than an hour to get to the mess, have breakfast and return, but if the ship was moving, he couldn't feel it, nor could he hear any hum of the engines.

"Are we moving?" he asked over his cards. Gusty, McNally and Murphy had folded. Wells and Franklin were still in, but Bucky was only one card away from a full-house.

"We're always moving," said Wells. He threw one card and picked another from the deck. A light frown played across his face before he smoothed it away. "Even when we're asleep, in bed, at home, we're moving."

"Now I know you're joking, Sarge," Carrot piped up. "'Cos when I'm asleep, I wake up in exactly the same position I started off in."

"You're sitting on a planet that's travelling around the sun at about 67,000 miles per hour, Carrot. I can guarantee that you don't go to sleep in the same place you woke up."

"Yeah but is the _ship_ moving?" Bucky insisted.

"Sure. At about 67,000 miles per hour."

"You're killin' me, Wells," he said dryly, to which Wells merely grinned.

"I think we're moving," said Murphy. "It's just that we're moving so slow we don't feel it. And we're probably still in shallow coastal waters, so we won't feel the waves for real until we get out to sea."

"Aw, hell," Franklin grumbled, then threw his cards face-down on the table. "I'm out."

"In that case, I raise fifty," said Wells, adding chips to the pot from his pile. "Well, Sergeant Barnes? What's it gonna be? I strongly recommend folding."

"Can I look at your cards?" asked Carrot hopefully.

"No you cannot, Corporal, because your face would give my hand away."

"Aw."

Bucky glanced down at his cards. He'd picked up the last three-card he needed for a full house, but it wasn't a very high house; threes and sixes. Wells had thrown a lot of chips into the pot after the last round of card-taking, and so far he'd shown himself to be a fairly defensive player… but Bucky wasn't entirely certain his friend wasn't just bullshitting.

"I'll call," he said. At this point, if he folded, he'd lose everything anyway. He could afford to lose another fifty, on the off chance that Wells was bluffing.

"Y'sure? 'Cos you're a pal, I'm gonna give you one last chance to fold."

"Just show me your damn cards," Bucky growled.

"Should'a folded," said Wells, as he lay out a straight flush. "It's a good job we're not playing for real money, or you'd be poor right now."

"I thought you were bluffing," Bucky said, trying not to sound sulky.

"I never bluff."

His comment earned a round of disbelieving scoffs from the rest of the players, but before anyone could respond, Tipper bounded up, all nervous excitement.

"Hey guys, I'm gonna go for a shower. Anyone wanna come with me?"

"Tipper, what branch of the armed forces do you serve in?" asked Wells.

"Err, the Army, Sarge."

"Exactly. This isn't the Navy, so go take that shower by yourself."

"But I don't know how to get there!"

"Ask one of the crew," Murphy suggested.

With a reproaching tut, Wells shook his head. "I wouldn't. You can't trust sailors. They might try to give you soap."

"What's wrong with soap?" Tipper asked quaveringly.

Wells shook his head again in despair while Gusty and Murphy sniggered.

"I'll go with you, Private," Carrot offered. "I'm sure we can find where they are without having to ask the crew."

"Sailors aren't really like that… are they, Sarge?" Franklin asked, when Carrot and Tipper had departed. "You were just saying that to scare Tipper, right?"

"It's your turn to deal, Franklin," Wells said, nimbly dodging the question. And judging by the look on Franklin's face, Bucky suspected the guy wouldn't be asking the crew for directions any time soon.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Burgers," said Carrot. "Big, thick, juicy burgers with the thinnest slices of tomato on top. Done on the barbecue, so that they're still sizzling when they're put on the bun."

"Hotdogs," Biggs offered. "With ketchup _and_ mustard."

"And fried onions," added Gusty. "You can't have dogs without fried onions."

"My mom's lamb casserole," said Bucky. Picturing it in his mind, he could almost _taste_ it. Thick slices of potatoes, thin slices of carrots, and chunks of lamb swimming in hot meat stock.

"Corn on the cob," Wells said. "Dripping with butter."

"Will you guys shut up already?" someone from the 46th Engineers called out. "You're making me hungry."

Bucky knew exactly how he felt. The dinner served in the galley that evening had been an even bigger disappointment than breakfast: spam; a dry, boiled potato; a small pile of green beans, and gravy that was so runny it had almost escaped. It had been edible, just barely, but almost every man except Tipper had come away complaining of an empty stomach. It didn't take much to fill Tipper's stomach up.

"What do you think the food will be like when we get to England?" Franklin mused aloud, to nobody in particular.

"More spam, probably," said Wells. "I hear they take their rationing very seriously there. They don't have any cows left in England now, you know. They've all been slaughtered for food already."

"I heard British food is really bland," said Davies. "It's all boiled vegetables and lumpy mashed potatoes."

"I like lumpy mashed potatoes," Bucky interjected. His mom made the best lumpy mash ever. Making mash so creamy that it was almost liquid was some kinda heinous crime, as far as he was concerned. If a pile of mash didn't hold its form when you turned it upside down, it wasn't proper mash.

" _Plus_ they drink warm beer with no fizz in it," Gusty said, back on the subject of English cuisine. His comment earned a round of disgusted sounds, but another thought marched swiftly through Bucky's mind.

"Hey, Biggs. You gettin' tired yet?"

"A little. Why?"

"I figure we should tie you down before you drift off and start sleepwalking."

"Yeah," said Wells, and Bucky could practically _feel_ the twisted humour dripping from his voice above. "No telling what those sailors will do to you if they find you walkin' around the _Monty_ looking completely out of it."

"I suppose it would be best to tie me down now," Biggs sighed, ignoring Wells' comment. Most of the 107th had learnt to ignore Wells' comments by now. Only Carrot and Tipper routinely fell for them, because Carrot was too damn naïve to know any better, and Tipper still young and impressionable enough to not wanna ignore someone ten years his senior.

Bucky swung himself out of his hammock and pulled his Biggs-adapted belt from his pants. Everybody in the 107th had a Biggs-adapted belt, these days. The adaptation was a couple of holes punched near the buckle-end, so that the belts could be fastened tight enough to restrain the private. As he reached Biggs, Carrot—who had the hammock above—passed down his belt, too.

"At least we've got these convenient metal frames, Sarge," Carrot observed, as Bucky lashed the human mountain to the frames on either side of his hammock. "They've gotta be better than a camp bed."

"Yeah. How do you feel, Biggs?"

The private gave an experimental tug on each arm. "Feels fine, Sarge. Thanks. I appreciate you not letting me walk off the ship straight into the ocean, or wander around in my sleep to get buggered by sailors."

"Ignore Wells, he was just joking about that," he assured the big man.

"No I wasn't," Wells called unhelpfully, from further up the row. He was peeping over the side of his hammock like a cat watching the mice at play. "My brother Tim's in the Navy, and he says you'd be surprised at the things some of them do to pass the time on long voyages. There's a reason they call every cabin-boy 'Roger', y'know."

"I don't get it," said Carrot, his blue eyes troubled. "I have a cousin called Roger. What's wrong with that?"

Poor Carrot's obliviousness earned a round of snickers from the men nearest by, and Bucky returned to his hammock, to the book he'd been trying to read in the semi-darkness. There was no doubt about it; by the end of this voyage, he'd have a serious case of eye-strain.

As the hours passed, more and more men began to fall asleep despite the hungry, unsatisfied aches in their bellies. Carrot brought out his photograph of Samantha, as he'd done every night in the barracks, and spent a short time just looking at the love of his life. Eventually, he put the picture away and added to the symphony of snores echoing around the long room.

The quiet swinging of the hammock above told him Wells wasn't asleep yet, so he gave a couple of pokes in the back and waited for his friend's face to appear. It did, upside down, and with a scowl on it.

"What'd I tell you about doing that?"

"Are you still reading that book?" he asked.

"Not _still_ ;again."

"Wanna swap?" he asked, holding up his copy of _Of Mice and Men._

Wells wrinkled his nose. "Naw. Read it already. Thought it was kinda boring."

"It's great American literature," Bucky pointed out.

"It's American literature, for sure. 'Great' is entirely subjective. If you wanna read something great, ask Gusty if he's got a copy of _The War of the Worlds._ Written by a distant relative of mine, y'know."

Bucky decided to let that particular piece of bullshit slide, since he had no real way of disproving it. Besides, there was a greater chance of Wells being related to a famous author, than there was of him eventually marrying Rita Hayworth. Which brought another point to mind.

"I haven't seen Rita since we came aboard."

"I left her back at the barracks."

"You forgot to pack your picture of your future wife?"

"Are you kiddin'?" Wells snorted. "Not a chance in hell I'm gonna bring a classy dame like that onto a ship-load of miscreants and perverts. No, Rita's safe on dry land. I'm not Carrot, I don't need to look at a picture every day to remind myself what a beautiful woman looks like. Anyway, she's not the only beautiful woman in the world. Maybe England's got its own Rita. I'm not actually that discerning."

"You're a real gentleman, Wells."

"Truer words were never spoken," he nodded solemnly. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get to the end of this chapter before I go to sleep."

"By all means, don't let me keep you from your sixth read-through of your book."

"Seventh," Wells corrected. "But who's counting?"

When his friend's face disappeared, Bucky sighed and turned to the first page of his book. Tomorrow, he'd see if Gusty had something interesting to trade, otherwise this was gonna be one hell of a long, boring trip.


	6. The Tea Party

We Were Soldiers

 _6\. The Tea Party_

After five days aboard the _Monticello_ , routine had quickly devolved into boredom. Bucky no longer got lost looking for the galley, and he came to hold a special sort of loathing for the showers; they used seawater, which meant the water was cold, soap didn't foam, and the dissolved salt scoured coarsely at skin, chafing and drying it. Everyone tried to make the days between showers stretch out as long as possible, but the delays made for unpleasant living in close quarters. The space 'tween decks was small, and enclosed, and with so many men inside it; hot. They may not have been getting much sweating done through exercise, but the lack of windows meant no fresh air could circulate, and life in the tween quickly became _ripe_.

On day five, he and Gusty bullied Private Hawkins up onto the outer deck, though Gusty was too nice for bullying, so he mostly cajoled, Carrot-style. Bucky was worried about the young private; Hawkins rarely went outside voluntarily, had to be reminded to go to the galley to eat, and spent far too much time in his hammock staring listlessly at the grey wall. He wished, now, that he'd tried harder to convince the young man to go home. The guy might be mourning his brother, but he was forgetting to eat and pulling away from the rest of regimental life. Bucky only knew one way to deal with a man who was mourning a loved one, and now he called upon the experience he'd gained with Steve, when his mom had died, using the same tactics to try and get Hawkins back into the thick of things.

It was a beautiful blue-sky day, gloriously sunny with a cool breeze. He and Gusty ushered Hawkins around the crowds of soldiers, towards one side of the ship, where they could stand and look down at the waves. Bucky had suggested that they look for dolphins. He had no idea whether there were dolphins out here, but Gusty had jumped at the idea, and together they'd managed to bring Hawkins out of his melancholy for at least a few minutes.

Despite the calmness of the day, the sea was anything but. The waves continuously rolled, and where the ship slid through them they crashed against the bow in white thunderheads which sent up plumes of salty spray. Compared to the ripeness of the tween, it was actually quite invigorating. Pity that the men were only allowed up for half an hour at a time. Some of the soldiers—and Bucky suspected Wells was one of them—managed to get more than their fair share of half-hour slots every day, but he had no idea how his friend was doing it. Probably didn't wanna know, now that he thought about it.

"Hey, is that a dolphin?" Gusty asked, pointing at something near the prow.

Hawkins squinted. "No, it's a wave."

"Oh. Damn."

"Are you okay, Hawkins?" asked Bucky. Out here, in the sunshine, the young man didn't just look pale… his skin had a noticeable green tinge to it.

Hawkins nodded, then changed his mind and shook his head. "I feel funny, Sarge. I think I'm sea-sick. It wasn't too bad, below deck, when I could just feel the motion of the sea a bit. But now that I can _see_ it, and the rolling waves, and the swinging horizon…"

"Is that why you've been avoiding the galley, and spending all your time in your hammock?" Hawkins nodded, and the young man's admission brought a wave of relief to Bucky's mind. _Thank God!_ Hawkins was just suffering from sea-sickness. "Alright, Private. Let's get you back down below, where you don't have see the ocean."

He and Gusty led the very green Hawkins back towards the door to the lower deck. Before they could get there, however, they were headed off by Pfcs. Davies and Franklin, the latter of whom looked very worried.

"Hey Sarge, what do you make of this?" Franklin asked.

Bucky instructed Gusty to take Hawkins back to the troop quarters, then the pair directed Bucky to the other side of the ship, where Franklin pointed at something on the distant horizon. It was hard to say what it was, but it looked like a thick line of _grey._ The only things which could look so grey, at such a distance, were land or clouds, and from what he could remember of his geography lessons, he didn't think there was much in the way of land out in the middle of the Atlantic.

"I think we might be in for a rough ride," he said. Poor Hawkins.

As the three made their way back towards the door, they were met by Wells, who approached with an expression of undiluted happiness on his face.

"Hey guys, I just heard from one of the sailors that we're probably gonna hit a storm later tonight."

"And yet you seem suspiciously happy about it," Bucky pointed out.

"A little rough weather never killed anyone!"

"Yeah, but a _lot_ of rough weather did," Davies replied.

"Better a storm than a U-boat."

"You may not think that when you see the colour of Hawkins' face," Bucky told his friend.

Wells hand-waved the comment away. "Got any plans for this evening, Sergeant Barnes?" he asked, while the two privates disappeared below deck.

"Hmm, well, I thought I might start off with a little light dinner of rock-hard potatoes in the mess, maybe play a few rounds of poker afterwards, and then depending on the weather, perhaps be violently ill."

His friend gave a quiet laugh. "Oh, don't worry, you'll be fine. But keep your schedule free!"

Before Bucky could even consider asking Wells why he needed to keep his schedule free, his fellow sergeant disappeared in the throng of soldiers making the most out of the nice weather. Whatever Wells was planning, it couldn't be good. Nobody in their right mind should be glad for a storm.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

By late afternoon, the rolling of the ship had intensified. The crew seemed to think it would be hours yet before the storm hit them, but already the effects could be felt in the waves that tossed the ship around like a child's toy in a churning bathtub. Even the soldiers who'd found their sea-legs found it difficult to stand upright and still.

Dinner was a difficult affair, because every once in a while a particularly tall wave would roll the ship to one side, and with it went the dinner trays and all of their contents. Meals were lost, the floor was dirtied, and mop-toting crewmen grumbled incessantly about _'land-lubbers with no damn sea-legs.'_ Hawkins wasn't the only one to become ill, and before too long, a string of men had lined themselves up outside the latrines, whence came many moans and groans and some rather unpleasant sounds and smells.

Nobody was much in the mood for poker, and by six o'clock Bucky had retreated to his hammock, to try and make a start on the book he'd traded Gusty _Of Mice and Men_ for. Gusty hadn't had _The War of the Worlds_ in his collection, but he had _White Fang_ , which sounded interesting, so he'd settled for that. Two chapters in, and he was enjoying it more than his previous novel.

When a shadow fell across his book, he looked up and found Wells loitering in front of his hammock. There was a sparkle in his blue eyes that Bucky had never seen before, and if he didn't know better, he would have thought his friend was _eager_.

Wells glanced at the book cover and gave an approving nod. "Good story. Now, come on," he instructed.

"What? Where?"

"You'll see."

He knew that was the only answer he'd be able to get out of Wells, so he closed his book and left it beneath his hammock as he pushed himself to his feet. A week at sea had done wonders for his sense of balance, but with the storm brewing, he found it more difficult to stay upright. As he followed Wells, he had to make a concerted effort to walk straight, to not bump into guys in hammocks and earn their ire.

Moving through the bowels of the ship was easier. Some of the well-used corridors had hand rails, and with a hand out to either side he could stop himself being rolled into the walls. The route Wells took was a familiar one; it led to a parting of corridors, one leading eventually down to the showers, and the other up to the galley.

"We're not going to the showers, are we?" he quipped.

Wells gave a quiet snort. "That might be your idea of a night fun, Barnes, but it ain't mine."

"Then where are we going?"

"It's a surprise."

Bucky's strongest feelings over his friend's cageyness were unease and intrigue. The former came from the knowledge that Wells was enigmatic and unpredictable, as liable to burst into laughter as he was to respond with cut-throat sarcasm. The latter came from… the same place, really. Life was never boring, with Danny Wells around.

At the crossroad of corridors, Wells didn't turn left, towards the galley, nor right, heading down to the showers. Instead, he went straight on, up a flight of stairs, and then along another familiar path which would take them up to the next deck. Very quickly, the war between unease and intrigue swung swiftly to 'unease'. The only place the troops were allowed to go from here was outside, but not even Wells was mad enough to go out on deck with a storm brewing.

Was he?

Up ahead was a door, on which a bored-looking sailor stood guard. As Wells approached, he drew a pack of smokes from the pocket of his jacket, and Bucky's unease deepened further. Wells didn't smoke, which meant he couldn't be planning to go outside, but Bucky didn't think his friend had brought him up here just to witness some trade.

"How's the weather out there, crewman?" Wells grinned, handing over the packet of cigarettes.

The sailor gave an unamused snort. "You're mad. You won't see it."

"That's what you think," Wells replied, completely unperturbed. "My brother Tim's in the Navy, and he's seen it twice."

"Your brother's as mad as you."

"Maybe."

"I've been doing this job for over ten years, and I've never seen it even once."

"Well, I'm lucky. Now quit stalling; I paid your fee."

The sailor handed a life jacket over to Wells, then thrust one into Bucky's arms, with a quiet grumble of, _"Mad, completely mad."_

"Uh, we're not going out, are we?" Bucky asked his friend.

Wells gave him the happiest smile he'd ever seen on the guy. "Sure are! Button up, it will be rough out there."

Bucky looked to the crewman for help, but the sailor merely watched him with that same bored expression despite the fact that he was possibly watching two men go to their deaths.

"Is this safe?" Bucky asked the man.

"Hell no."

"Uh, Wells…"

"We'll be fine," his friend said as he tightened the buckles on his jacket. "C'mon Barnes, don't make me dress you, I'm not your mom."

A thousand excuses crossed his mind, and he even considered point-blank refusing and going back to the tween deck to resume his book. But one thing was certain; Wells was going out there. He'd just paid a guy a packet of cigarettes to be allowed out on deck in a brewing storm. Whatever madness he was suffering from wasn't just going to evaporate because Bucky wasn't playing along. If he let his friend go out there alone, and anything happened to him…

He pulled on his life jacket and belted it up whilst Wells bounced excitedly on his heels. When Bucky was ready, he nodded at the sailor, who pushed the door open and was almost blown right off his feet. Bucky grabbed the nearby hand-rail and sent a silent prayer to God.

"This way!" Wells shouted cheerfully above the din of the crashing waves.

Bucky aimed a silent curse at his friend, then followed him out onto the deck. The wind immediately tugged at him, and he grabbed a hold of the waist-high rail which ran around the entire vessel, the only thing between the deck and the sea. Wells seemed to know where he was going; he moved swiftly, one hand on the rail, before cutting across the centre of the deck to the middle of the ship.

As the ship pitched and rolled and listed and did other nautical things, Bucky pottered unsteadily after his friend. Overhead, the sky was light grey, but those huge black thunderclouds had grown a hell of a lot closer over the past few hours, and the front end of the storm was starting to make itself felt.

"In here," Wells yelled, gesturing to a sheltered spot between the thingumajig and the gubbins—two nautical terms for parts of a ship which nobody knew the actual names of. In this case, the thingumajig and the gubbins were solid metal structures about three feet apart which were boxed off at one end by a thick sheet of steel.

Wells stepped into the sheltered bluff and sat down with his back against the steel sheet, bracing himself with his feet planted in front of him. The ship pitched again, and Bucky hurriedly sat beside him, adopting the same posture, essentially wedging himself in to the small gap. His army jacket did little to stop the chill wind from biting his skin; it simply blew into every nook and cranny. Beside him, he could feel Wells shivering with the same coldness.

"What the hell are we doing out here?" Bucky asked. Out of the worst of the wind, he didn't have to shout.

"Waiting for the show to start," Wells grinned, gesturing out at the view in front of them.

It wasn't much of a view. They were barely above the flat of the deck. He could hear waves, but he couldn't see them. The kiss of the ocean against the sky on the horizon was obscured by a large mass of steel superstructure; chimneys spewing smoke, the bridge and artillery turrets, and the towering communication masts which bowed and swayed under pressure from the wind. In fact, the upper parts of the ship towered so high, and so close, that he could barely even see the sky at all.

He glanced at his friend. Wells' eyes were fixed on the communications masts, and there was a sort of focused intensity on his face, as if merely by watching the sky he could will it to happen. But Bucky had no desire to will a storm to life. He'd seen enough storms to know that he didn't want to be out here in this one.

"Look," he said, "much as I appreciate you involving me in your actual, honest-to-God insanity, I think I'm gonna go back inside. I've seen dozens of storms, and I don't wanna wait out here for another."

"Storm? We're not here for the storm. No, we're here for something much better. You ever read _Alice in Wonderland_ by Lewis Carroll?"

"Yeah, once." To his little sister, Janet, when she'd been kept off school with the chicken pox at ten years old.

"You remember that white rabbit Alice kept chasing?"

He did not like the way this conversation was going. "Yeah."

"Well, we're here to chase a white rabbit of our own."

There was no doubt about it. The guy was insane.

"Have you been inhaling that nitrous gas from the hospital ward?" Bucky asked him.

"They have nitrous here?" Wells grinned, and the wind tried to whip his words away. Maybe he sensed how close Bucky was to losing his temper and leaving, because he dropped the grin and gestured up at the ship looming above them. "Sailors call it _St. Elmo's Fire_. It's something to do with the charge in the atmosphere, in stormy weather. When the conditions are right, the pointy thingumajigs on a ship glow with a sort of blueish purple nimbus, which lights up the sky for miles around."

"That's fascinating," Bucky admitted. "But why the hell are we out here looking for it?"

"Because ever since my brother Tim told me about the first time he saw it, right before a storm, I've wanted to see it for myself. Sailors say it brings good luck."

"Shit, Wells, if you wanted good luck, I would have bought you a lucky rabbit's foot before we left NYPOE."

"This isn't just about luck. This is about seeing something rare, and unique. Something we may never get the chance to see again."

That made sense—at least, it made sense in the mad world of Danny Wells—but it left one burning question. "Okay. But why the hell am _I_ out here chasing _your_ white rabbit?"

"Because I need someone to alert the crew if I get swept overboard," his friend smiled. "Or, better yet, jump in and save me."

"But then who would jump in and save _me_?"

"Why've I gotta think of everything?"

A condolence letter from General Marshall to his parents appeared in his mind, neatly typed and personally signed.

' _Dear Mr & Mrs Barnes, it is my deepest regret to inform you that your son James Barnes was tragically lost at sea, after being convinced to chase a white rabbit into a storm by a man of questionable mental faculties. We all mourn your terrible loss.'_

"Maybe your brother was bullshitting you," Bucky suggested.

Wells shook his head, his teeth chattering with cold. "He wouldn't. Besides, I looked it up in the library. It's real."

"Did those library books say how long we gotta wait out here?"

Another head-shake. "I was kinda hoping we'd've seen it by now."

Bucky turned his gaze up to the comms masts and joined Wells in _willing_ the atmospheric phenomenon to appear. He didn't care about seeing it himself, but the sooner Wells saw it, the sooner they could go back down below. Back to safety, and heat, and the smell of five-hundred unwashed bodies… actually, maybe being out here wasn't _that bad_ , for the moment. At least the air was fresh.

Had his dad ever had to put up with crazy guys like Wells, or oblivious guys like Carrot, or nervous guys like Gusty? Dad had never really spoken about the Great War, except to say that the tactics of the U.S. brass had been outdated and relied on throwing large numbers of soldiers at a target in the hopes of overwhelming it, and that with thousands of fresh American troops landing in Europe every day, it really had come down to a matter of maths. Even with high mortality rates, the U.S. had been able to replace its soldiers faster than the Germans could.

Now, Bucky could only hope that those 'win by numbers' tactics had been abandoned and updated for something more effective. Certainly, if they had to go up against some German assault courses, Bucky felt adequately prepared; those assault courses didn't stand a chance. He just wasn't sure about German _soldiers_. He'd done alright at shooting targets for practise, but those targets hadn't been moving, and they hadn't been people.

"Where'd you do your basic training? he asked Wells.

"Camp Ashfort, North Dakota."

"What was that like?"

Wells considered it for a moment as his lips turned a deeper shade of blue in the cold wind. "Hell. You?"

"Camp McCoy in Wisconsin."

"Gotta love those northern states for winter training, huh?"

"Heh, yeah. Wish I could'a gone to Arizona, or New Mexico. At least it would've been a bit warmer during the day."

"And probably at night, too, even in the middle of the desert."

Overhead, immense black clouds rolled across the sky, completely blocking out the evening sunset and turning their entire world as deep as night. Bucky felt a more violent shiver pass through his body, and it had nothing to do with the coldness of the air. The darkening sky reminded him of a story his mom had read to him, when he'd been much younger. A story about another ship that had met with its own natural disaster.

" _Call me Ishmael,"_ he mumbled to himself.

"What'd you say?" Wells asked.

"Nothing. Wells, we can't stay out here, it's too cold!"

"It's brisk, I'll give you that."

"Your lips are blue, your teeth are chattering so hard you can barely talk, and you're shivering even worse than me."

"Just excited," Wells objected feebly.

At that moment, a piercing flash of blue lightning tore the black sky in half, followed seconds later by a roaring of thunder so loud that it shook the deck of the boat. And now, a new unpleasant thought made itself known. Bucky looked up again at the comms masts, and tried to see past the afterimage of the lightning that had seared itself across his vision.

"Uh… those are metal, right?"

Wells nodded. "I suddenly think it would be a great idea for us to get back inside."

"You're a goddamn genius."

Just as they were hauling themselves to their feet, fate threw its last unpleasant trick at them. Rain began to fall through the tear the lightning had ripped in the clouds, but this wasn't rain like you got in New York, which generally came down vertically and under the influence of gravity, like good, proper rain ought to do. No, this rain came in at a diagonal that quickly started to become horizontal as the howling wind shifted direction without warning.

The deck, which had once seemed so sturdy, now dipped alarmingly each time the ship rode a new towering wave, and to make matters worse, each time it dipped, the side of the ship hit the waves and sent up spray so high that it came arching over the deck in a tidal-wave of saltwater. Standard issue army boots were not designed to grip well on a salt-water soaked deck, and they both slipped and slid as they tried to make their way back to the rail, where they could at least have something to hold on to. A half dozen times Bucky lost his footing and was pulled to his feet by Wells, and a half dozen times Wells lost his footing and was pulled to his feet by Bucky, so that as they reached the rails, he really had no idea which of them was helping the other, or whether they were both accidentally dragging each other down.

By some miracle, Bucky made his frozen fingers grip the rail like they'd gripped the safety bar of the Cyclone on Coney Island, that time he'd made Steve ride it with him. Steve had been sick, and now Bucky knew exactly how Steve felt. He wasn't scared; he was _terrified_. The rain and the sea-spray brutally battered him, assaulting his eyes so he couldn't see where he was going, and he only knew Wells was still behind him because his friend kept bumping into him. Clothes which had once been the only source of warmth were now sodden and heavy, so that every step felt like walking with a thousand lead weights tying him down. And each time the ship dipped towards the waves, he had to stop walking and hang on for dear life as he was nearly toppled over the rail and into the hungry maw of the sea.

At last, by some great act of fortitude or providence, Bucky reached the door down to the lower deck and hammered on it with his fist as he clung to the handle and Wells clung to his life-jacket. The sailor on duty opened the door, and they both went tumbling inside in a deluge of water. The sailor closed the door, and watched them slowly pick themselves up.

"Told ya you wouldn't see it," the man said, in that same bored tone.

Wells was too cold to talk, so he gave the man the two-fingered salute; it was rendered less effective by the violent shaking of his hand. Bucky tried to unfasten his life-jacket, but his fingers had gone beyond _cold_ and into _numb_ territory. He just couldn't get them to work, and at last the sailor took pity on them, helping them take their life-jackets off. Bucky managed to stammer out a thanks, then set off back to the tween with Wells in tow. As they left, he heard the sailor mutter, _"Dumb-asses,"_ just loud enough to be overheard.

No journey had ever taken so long as the one which Bucky took back to the tween, and they encountered not a single soul during their chthonic lurch to troop quarters. Had it been a normal day at sea, the corridors would have been filled with troops stretching their legs for visits to the galley or the showers, or to the other troop quarters to engage in a little light barter and perhaps some fraternisation. But nobody was dumb enough to be moving around in this; nobody but Bucky and Wells. The ship's crew were undoubtedly occupied battling the storm, or safe in their bunks, waiting it out in relative comfort.

The worst thing about walking in wet gear was how much it chafed. And the worst thing about walking in gear soaked through with salt-water was _how it chafed even more_. As Bucky's body began to warm, the shivering increased in intensity, and he actually wished he was still cold enough to not feel the chafing, because every step was agony, and he chafed in places he didn't even know it was possible to chafe in.

When they reached the tween deck, everybody was at once sympathetic and—because neither of them had died—very amused. The 107th were mostly sympathetic, and they rallied immediately to get their comrades out of their completely sodden clothes. It was a measure of how cold and miserable Wells was that he didn't offer a single word of complaint when Gusty stripped him down to his underwear.

Hammocks were out of the question; they were both shivering too intensely to get into them, much less stay in them, so they sank down in the aisles between the duffel bags and backpacks whilst the 107th buried them alive with blankets, and the rest of the regiments in the tween came over in turn to laugh at the dumb-asses who'd been stupid enough to go outside in a storm. Bucky had thought the cold would be the worst thing he would experience; he quickly learnt that the tiredness was worse. It stole over his mind time and time again, pulling at his heavy lids, trying to make him sleep. But each time his eyes closed, Carrot poked him until he opened them again, and told him not to go to sleep because he might die of hypothermia. Bucky _wanted_ to tell him that it wasn't possible to die of hypothermia now that he was actually out of the cold and warming up, but his teeth were chattering too hard to form words.

It took half an hour for Bucky's teeth to stop chattering, forty-five minutes for the feeling to return to his extremities, and a full hour before his body finally stopped shivering, and by the end of the hour he felt completely and utterly exhausted. Worse, he could now feel _everything_. He could feel where his wet clothes had chafed his skin raw, he could feel the blisters on the backs of his heels where his boots had rubbed, and the blisters on the palms of his hands where he'd gripped the rails. He could feel where the saltwater had scoured his cheeks and his forehead, and his eyes stung and burned like they had acid in them. Part of him wanted to ask for a mirror, but when he looked at Wells, the rest of him decided his friend was all the mirror he needed.

"Just like boot camp," Wells mumbled drowsily, some time later. Most of the 107th had gone to watch a poker game between the Engineers and the Signals, a little further up the tween deck. Carrot was still loitering nearby; he seemed to be taking his role as chief-prodder very seriously.

Bucky gave his friend a snort of disbelief. "You're actually mad."

"Barnes, we're soldiers on a transport being shipped to fight in a war thousands of miles away from our homes, and we're doing that on twelve weeks of basic training and in spite of the fact that none of us has ever—hopefully—shot at a living soul before in our lives." The look Wells gave him from his bloodshot eyes was very sober. "We're all mad here."

* * *

 _Author's note: It's also an excellent song._


	7. 4th July

We Were Soldiers

 _7\. 4th July_

Bucky had never imagined that he'd spend Independence Day in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, but twelve days into their voyage, almost a week after the short but violent storm that had nearly cost the Barnes family their beloved eldest son, that was exactly what happened.

It had been a pretty quiet week, for the most part. During the 24-hour storm, almost everybody had ended up being ill at some point, and even a few of the crew looked a little green around the gills. But it could have been worse; at least it had only lasted a day, and it hadn't taken any real time off their journey.

Since then, life aboard the _Monty_ had gone back to normal. Every morning was grits for breakfast, and every evening was spam and boiled vegetables for dinner. Between those two major events, the troops killed time in any way they could. Mostly they played card games, read books and told stories to keep themselves entertained. Most men got above deck a couple of times a day, and even when it was overcast and raining, the most desperate to smoke braved the cold and the rain, getting their tobacco fix down as fast as possible.

On the morning of 4th July, the Captain made an announcement. Bucky didn't hear the announcement himself, because troops never saw the Captain—perhaps, like Camp Shanks' General, he didn't even truly exist—but the announcement was spread around the ship by the crew, so he at least knew that it was a reliable announcement; the crew tended not to spread bullshit and rumours like the troops did. The announcement was that for the whole of the national holiday, there would be festivities on deck, including band music throughout the day and a rifle-salute at dawn, midday and dusk. The galley would be serving special meals instead of the usual slop, and there would be one cup each of beer with dinner for all the troops stationed aboard. The announcement was met with much cheering from the tween deck.

"I wonder if there'll be fireworks!" Carrot mused happily, after he'd finished the fifty push-ups he still insisted on doing every morning.

"That sounds like a fantastic idea, Carrot," Wells grumbled. "Let's send up a bunch of bright, noisy flares, two days' sailing away from Europe. And maybe when we're done visually announcing our exact location to the _Kriegsmarine_ , we can save them the trouble of blowing up the ship by tossing a few grenades into the engine room and sinking the _Monty_ ourselves."

Tipper's hand shot into the air like he was in school or something. "I vote we don't do that."

"You're a bright kid, Tipper. You're gonna go far."

"Which side of the hammock did you fall out of this morning?" Bucky asked his friend, when Carrot and Tipper had grabbed their galley cards and left the tween. "You usually leave it until after breakfast before giving Carrot a hard time."

"Yeah, well, it was a long night. I didn't get much sleep."

Wells did look pretty tired; he had dark crescents beneath his eyes, and a small grey raincloud looming over his head. Bucky decided to let it slide.

"Alright. Are you coming for breakfast?"

"You go, I'll catch up with you later. Wanna head to the john before it gets busy."

Bucky left his friend to whatever new sulky mood he was in, and caught up with Carrot and Tipper just before they reached the galley. Word had obviously spread about the higher standard of food in celebration of Independence Day, because the queue was much longer than usual. It took over an hour for them to reach the front of the line, where their cards were punched by long-suffering crew members whose lot in life seemed to be to punch cards for troops. Bucky felt momentarily sorry for them… then he realised they were probably paid better than he was, and the sympathy fled.

Tipper sniffed the air. "Smells like sausages."

Carrot sniffed, too. "No, it smells like bacon."

The unusually delicious smells coming from the galley turned out to be sausages _and_ bacon, and fried tomatoes and poached eggs, with tiny packets of ketchup for seasoning. After eleven days of grits, it seemed a rich feast, and it boded well for dinner; perhaps, with real meat aboard, they'd finally have something better than spam.

Nobody wanted to rush their breakfast, and the troops found ways to loiter over their meals. Eventually, though, breakfast had to end, and with great regret, Bucky popped the last piece of bacon into his mouth and thought he'd never tasted anything so good in his life.

He'd kept an eye out for Wells, but his friend hadn't shown up, which was odd, because the promise of better food should have brought Wells racing here, especially if he found out there were eggs for breakfast. But just as he was about to suggest looking for the absent sergeant, Carrot came out with a different suggestion.

"Hey Sarge, should we see if we can get up on deck and listen to the band for a while?"

What the hell. Wells wasn't a kid, he could see to his own breakfast, and word had it the sun had come out for the first time in two days. Taking fresh air and a walk on the deck wasn't pleasant in the grey and the rain, but if the sun was shining, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.

They waited for another hour in the queue for some deck time, and when they reached the front of the queue they were given life jackets and a blue armband each. The armband system had been introduced on the first day as a way of controlling how many soldiers were on deck. For every half-hour slot the armband colours were rotated, and in fifteen minute intervals a crewman was sent to round up anyone who had an armband colour that was over its half-hour limit. There were always men who found a way to beat the system, but for the most part, it worked.

The ship's band was very good, and decked out in full regalia they looked and sounded even more professional than a band in a music hall. Bucky stood with Carrot and Tipper, listening first to a rendition of _The Star Spangled Banner_ , and then _Yankee Doodle_. After that, they took a walk around the deck to the tune of _God Bless America_ , and then spent a little time leaning against the railings while they looked out over the ocean and pretended they could already see England.

It was a beautiful day, the kind which the crew had warned about early in the voyage. The cool breeze belied the heat of the sun, and those who stood too long gazing into the waves often came away with a painful sunburn. Gusty had learnt that lesson the hard way on Day Three.

As their half-hour deck allowance came to an end, Bucky looked around for Wells, but couldn't see his friend anywhere in the milling throng. He guessed his fellow sergeant was taking his time over breakfast, so ushered the younger soldiers back down below deck and put his friend out of mind again.

Back in the troops quarters, Carrot claimed he'd been practising at poker, and begged Bucky to set up a game for him. He decided to give Carrot the benefit of the doubt, and invited Tipper, Biggs and Hawkins to join in. Hawkins, he suspected, could do with a distraction from his lingering sea-sickness, and the other two were more patient than most of the 107th, and not likely to get mad at Carrot for running his finger down his list of hands or muttering to himself under his breath.

Most poker games drew a crowd as they progressed and the stakes grew higher, but poker games with Carrot in them tended to have the opposite effect. Pretty soon the tween deck was half empty, and after an hour of play, Carrot had run out of chips.

"I'm rubbish at this," Carrot said glumly. "How come I always end up losing my chips? I hardly gamble any of them!"

"That's your problem, Carrot," Bucky told him. "Poker is a game of risk. If you try to play it safe, then every new round you lose chips to the ante and never recover them because you're not taking chances. It's loss by attrition."

"But I'm no good at bluffing, Sarge, and every time I get a good hand, nobody bets against me."

"That's because you grin like an idiot when you get a good hand," Tipper pointed out. "So everyone folds before the pot can build up properly. You need to work on your poker face."

"My poker face?"

"Yeah," Biggs explained. "You need to make your face go blank so you don't show when you're happy about a good hand or disappointed about a bad one."

"Okay, how's this?" asked Carrot, lowering his brows into a deep, intimidating scowl.

"Well, you'll have to sit with your poker face for the whole game, so you might wanna pick something less… uh… murderous."

"Hey Sarge," said Gusty, putting down the pocket book he'd been reading and looking over to the group, "why don't we play a real game, then Carrot can see how it's done?"

"Alright," Bucky agreed. "Lessee, we got you and me, Tipper's too young to play against us—"

"But Sarge, I'm eighteen!"

"Like I said, too young to play. Hawkins? Biggs?"

"I just wanna go lie down, Sarge," said Hawkins. Poor guy had gone a deep shape of cucumber-green. Being upright for too long tended to do that to him.

"I don't wanna play against you and Gusty," said Biggs. "I just like to play for fun, not for real."

Two players could not a poker game make, but perhaps all was not lost. "Gusty," Bucky said, "why don't you get all the chips back in and shuffle the deck, and I'll go see if I can find Franklin and Davies and Wells. I gotta go answer a call of nature anyway, so I'll keep an eye out for them en route."

First he checked the mess, in case his friends had become slaves to the delicious breakfast. Franklin was there, mopping up his ketchup with a corner of charred toast and looking like all his Christmases had come at once.

"Hey, Franklin, you wanna play a game of poker in the tween?"

"Sure, Sarge, I'll be there soon." Franklin's eyes darted from side to side, then he opened up his jacket pocket to show Bucky the contents. "Look at what I managed to redistribute." Inside were about fifty packets of ketchup.

"You're a hero, Franklin," Bucky grinned, clapping the man on the shoulder. "Have you seen Davies and Wells?"

"Um… no."

It was an innocent enough response, but Franklin's shifty-eyes had come back, and Bucky couldn't see any reason for him to be shifty right now. "What aren't you telling me, Franklin?"

The man squirmed in his seat and lowered his voice. "Davies claimed it's possible to make moonshine outta sugar and yeast and water, so at the start of the voyage, he and a couple of corporals from one of the other troop quarters used some of the sugar packets we'd redistributed from Last Stop to set up a still near the boiler room."

Was there no end to Davies' resourcefulness? "Where'd they get the yeast?"

"Dunno. Didn't ask. Don't wanna know, either. Anyway, apparently the still… it erm, well… leaked."

"Leaked?"

"Explosively. Last night. So Davies and the others are trying to hide the evidence and keep out of the way of the Captain."

Bucky closed his eyes. How close had Davies and his partners-in-crime come to blowing up the ship? And what would happen to them if they were caught?

"Don't worry, Sarge," said Franklin. "Pfc. Davies seems to be pretty good at getting himself out of these sorts of messes."

"I guess you're right," he sighed. Big goddamn kids, all of them. "I'll see you back in the tween for that game of poker, then."

He left Franklin to his ketchup-redistributing and made his way to the latrines. Nobody in their right mind spent more than a second longer inside them than they had to, because they smelt like an entire troop had crawled down the plumbing and died, but it was the last place Wells had mentioned before mysteriously disappearing. Rumour had it people went missing all the time in the Bermuda Triangle, but he didn't think the _Monty_ was anywhere near Bermuda, and surely no triangle could make just a single man disappear… could it?

Wells wasn't there, but he encountered Sgt. Murphy from the Screaming Eagles coming out. Latrine decorum suggested you never made eye contact with another guy going into, coming out of, or whilst inside, the john, but right now, Bucky's niggling concern for his friend outweighed decorum.

"Hey Murphy, have you seen Wells anywhere?"

"Not for about an hour," Murphy replied.

"Where was he when you last saw him?"

"Up on deck. Aft of the ship."

 _Aft_ , Bucky had learnt over the past twelve days, was a nautical term which meant _back_. Why they didn't just _say_ 'back' was a question for the sages. But at least if Wells was still there, he hadn't disappeared into a mystery triangle.

"Alright, thanks. There's a poker game starting soon in the tween, if you're interested."

"Carrot's not playing, is he?"

"No," Bucky smiled. Poor Carrot probably ought to switch to something less complex than poker. _Go-fish_ or _snap_ , maybe. "It's a real game."

"Sure, I got time to kill." Murphy grinned beneath his generous moustache. "Hope you're in the mood to lose, Barnes."

"We'll see about that."

After seeing to nature's call, Bucky made his way back to the queue waiting to get up on deck, and excused himself several times as he slipped past the waiting men to the front of the line. Another of the bored-looking sailors was on life jacket duty, but Bucky didn't recognise him. He was a grizzled fella with a scar down his left cheek and a smattering of grey in his auburn hair.

"Excuse me," he said. "Could you tell me if Wells is up on deck?"

"Y'know how many of you bullet-dodgers are aboard the _Monty_?" the sailor shot back.

 _Bullet-dodgers?_ "No?"

"Two thousand, give or take. I wouldn't take the time to learn the names of two thousand dogs, if we were takin' em to Europe, so why would I take the time to learn the names of two thousand of you bullet-dodgers?"

"Did you just compare us to _dogs_?" he scowled.

"Sorry." The sailor chewed for a moment on a piece of tobacco, then moved it over to the other side of his cheek. "Should'a said 'ants. ' Tiny little annoying things, all identical-lookin'."

Bucky managed to fend off his irritation. The crew enjoyed riling up the troops like Wells enjoyed riling up the servicemen. Rising to the bait wouldn't accomplish anything, so he ignored the jabs and tried for civility.

"Danny Wells is about my height," he explained. "Short black hair, blue eyes." The sailor gave him a blank stare. "He's kind of a jerk and really sarcastic."

"Oh, Sergeant Bullshit? Why didn't you just say? Yeah, he's up on deck."

"Great. Could I go outside and bring him in?"

"There's a queue," the sailor said, pointing to the waiting troops.

"I know, but I don't wanna spend time outside, I just wanna bring my friend in. Please? I'll only be five minutes."

"Sorry kid, but I can't let you jump the queue."

By now, Bucky had been in the army long enough to know quite a few of the unwritten rules, even though he hadn't actually seen combat yet. There was the rule about names, and the rule about knowing the right people… and there was also the rule of knowing how to ask for favours. The rules stated that in a situation in which you were asking for a favour, and the other party didn't want to give you that favour because he was a Right Rotten Bastard, two options were available. You could either bribe him, which was the common army method, or you could blackmail him, which was generally frowned upon because there was also the Rule of Karma, which said everything you did would come back and bite you on the ass later.

Bucky didn't have anything to bribe the sailor with, so he decided to fall back on _blackmail_ and deal with the consequences when they eventually came back to bite him on the ass. He took a step forward, towards the man, and lowered his voice.

"Y'know that song, 'Drunken Sailor'?" he asked. The crewman grumbled something that sounded annoyed. "If you don't let me up onto the deck to look for my friend, I'm gonna have the troops waiting here start a rousing chorus of that song. I'm sure some of them know the words, but the ones that don't will just make up anything. And they'll sing it over, and over, and over, until it makes your ears bleed."

"You've got five minutes." The sailor shoved a life jacket into his arms and gave him a look as murderous as Carrot's poker face.

"Thanks, you're a real pal," Bucky grinned.

When he stepped out on deck to the sound of the band blaring out _The Star Spangled Banner_ , he was struck by an overpowering sensation of déjà vu. He shrugged it off as he made his way to the back of the ship, where he found Wells lounging in the shade of another thingumajig, book in hands. He glanced up when Bucky stopped in front of him.

"Barnes."

"The hell are you doing out here?" he asked his friend.

"Celebrating. Can't you tell?"

Bucky glanced around at the revelry, at the men strolling and laughing and attempting to sing along to the band's music, gossipping in their groups, bartering loudly for various sundries. Then he looked back down at his friend, sitting quietly alone with his book.

"That's the worst attempt at celebrating I ever saw."

"Got myself a new book." Wells tilted the cover up, revealing the title, _Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_.

"That's a good book."

"I know, I've read it before."

"So why didn't you get a book you _haven_ _'t_ read before?"

"Because I like this one. Did you know the Brooklyn library banned it in 1905? Anything that's been banned at some point has gotta be worth reading more than once."

"What happened to _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_?" he asked. That book had been practically glued to his friend's hands since NYPOE.

"Oh, I still have that. Might start a library of my own. Why should Gusty have the monopoly on books?"

"It's a pretty poor library if you only have two books in it," Bucky pointed out.

"I only started building it this morning. Anyway, if you don't mind, I wanna get back to the _Adventures_. It just got to a good part."

Bucky finally recalled his reason for seeking Wells out in the first place. "We're having a game of poker in the tween. Wanna join?"

"Nah, thanks. I wanna celebrate out here."

Wells' armband was red, but when Bucky looked around the open deck, he couldn't see many other red bands. And hadn't Murphy said he'd seen Wells out here an hour ago?

"How'd you manage to stay up here so long?" he asked, already suspecting the answer.

"Bribery. Each cigarette buys me an extra half-hour. Now, if that's all..?"

A perplexed frown crept across Bucky's face. Wells was acting very un-Wells-like. Normally his friend leapt at a chance for a poker game, claimed it kept him sharp for when the stakes became real. And while the whole ships was celebrating, Wells seemed to be attempting the exact opposite. It was a mystery; one Bucky needed to get to the bottom of. He decided to probe a little further, to deny his pal the isolation he was trying to seek.

"So, twelve days at sea and we finally got eggs for breakfast like you wanted, huh?"

"Yeah, I heard about that."

Bucky's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "You _heard_ about it? You mean, you didn't have breakfast?"

"What are you, my mom?" Wells scowled. "I can skip breakfast if I want, it's not a crime. I just wasn't hungry."

Perplexity and niggling concern erupted into all-out worry. Wells skipping breakfast when it was grits was slightly understandable, but him skipping a proper fry-up… Eggs were his favourite breakfast food! That he'd _heard about it_ but chosen to abstain from his favourite breakfast meant there must be something troubling him deeply.

He squatted down beside his friend, conscious that he'd probably passed the five-minute mark and at any moment a murderous crewman might come to haul him back inside. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Wells shot back.

"You don't normally say no to poker."

"Well maybe I'm fed up of you guys breathing down my neck every five minutes. Maybe I'm fed up of Carrot's fat-headed comments, and Tipper's over-excited boot-licking, and Gusty's smell. Maybe after twelve days in a metal tin with five hundred guys, doing the same thing day in and day out, I want a bit of time and space to myself. A break from routine. You ever think of that?"

"This sounds like more than cabin fever."

"Maybe because you need it to be more than cabin fever," said Wells. His eyes, usually full of humour, were like two ice chips. "You got a problem, Barnes. You have what I would call an obsessive compulsion to fix things. You see something broke, you wanna fix it. You see someone in trouble, you wanna help. You stick your nose into places it doesn't belong because, hell, I dunno, maybe fixing other peoples' problems and having them be grateful gives you your jollies. And now it's gotten so you see problems where none exist, just to try and give yourself something to fix. I don't need anyone to fix my problems, and I certainly don't need someone to project imaginary problems onto me just so they can try to be a white knight. If you want to help someone, try starting with yourself. Now scram, you're cramping my celebrating."

And with that, Wells turned his gaze back to his book, a thorough and final dismissal.

Bucky felt his heart dip into his stomach. Part of him wanted to be angry with his friend, but he couldn't rouse that particular monster. Anger wouldn't help, and Wells—for some reason—seemed angry enough for the both of them. _Cabin fever,_ he told himself. _It_ _'s just cabin fever._ He'd heard a few horror stories about what cabin fever could do to a man. Most of those stories had been told by those who, like Wells, had relatives at sea, but there had to be some inkling of truth to the tales. It couldn't _all_ be bullshit.

He left his friend and made his way back across the deck, barely even hearing the jaunty songs intended to raise cheer and encourage revelry. When he reached the door, he handed his life jacket back to the sailor, pointed out to one of the waiting soldiers that his shoelace was untied, and wondered whether, perhaps, Wells might actually be right.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Did you guys ever meet somebody who didn't like Independence Day?" Bucky asked several hours later. He was near the front of the galley queue with Gusty, Tipper, Biggs, Carrot and Hawkins. After several games of poker, the 107th and the Eagles had decided to head up to dinner early, so they could get front spots in the queue. They'd already been in line for an hour, so it couldn't be too long now before the mess opened and began serving whatever delicious meal was on offer.

"Yeah, but he was Jewish," said Gusty. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. I'm just saying."

"I never met anyone who didn't like Independence Day," Carrot said. His attempts at poker-face had finally worn off, and now he wore a look of disbelief and confusion. "That'd be like… like… hating Christmas! And what could make someone hate Christmas?"

"Being Jewish, probably," Gusty offered.

"Do you guys think I have an obsessive need to fix things? Be honest with me," he warned.

"That depends, Sarge." Gusty tapped his chin with his finger as he considered it. "Do you find yourself breaking things on purpose, just so you can fix them?"

"No."

"Then it's not obsessive, or a need. Why? Do _you_ think you have an obsessive need to fix things?"

He scoffed. "Of course not. But I was trying to figure out what's eating Wells, and he said I had an obsessive need to fix things."

"It's good that you don't think that," said Gusty.

"Yeah."

He looked around at his friends. They'd all gotten closer, during the voyage. Everyone had heard all about Samantha; they knew her birthday, they knew her favourite colour, her favourite flower, her favourite song… hell, they even knew where she and Carrot had been when he'd proposed to her. And since Hawkins' brother's death, they all knew his brother's name, had heard stories about his family, tales of getting into trouble with Drew when they'd been kids, the places they'd gone on holiday and the adventures they'd had away from home. Damn near everyone in the 107th could name a half-dozen facts about any other member off the top of his head. _Almost._

"You guys ever notice how Wells doesn't talk about himself?" he mused.

"That's because he's bitter, Sarge," Carrot nodded sagely. "Bitter like… like…"

"Home-squeezed lemonade without any sugar," Tipper finished.

"If you hadn't talked him into helping, Samantha never would'a got her rose."

"He can't be _that_ bitter," Biggs waded in. "He was full of ideas to help stop me gettin' into trouble for sleep-walking."

"I don't think he's bitter," said Hawkins. "I think he just doesn't know how to be nice. Drew was like that, a bit. He could be a real jerk at times, but he was always there when I needed him. And when he was lookin' out for me, I knew he was saying all the things he didn't know how to say with words."

Biggs and Hawkins raised good points. When both men had really and truly needed help, Wells had come through for them. Sitting with Hawkins, being there and sharing his pain, had been an unpleasant hell. Anybody who had brothers serving in the forces would have felt for the young private's loss, and wondered if perhaps their own brothers might be the next ones to be killed in action. Wells could'a left Bucky to deal with Hawkins alone… but he didn't. And now, Bucky had left his friend alone while everyone else was celebrating, all because Wells had been more of a jerk than usual. But that was cabin fever talking, not Wells. And Bucky had let it drive him away.

He didn't get chance to ponder it further, because the galley opened and the queue began to move. By five-thirty, Bucky and his friends were standing with trays in hand while the cooks served up real, honest-to-God hotdogs, two per soldier, nestled in a crusty white bread roll, with a side of cocktail-stick-thin fries on the side. The much anticipated beer was served from huge kegs, one plastic cup of the stuff for every soldier present.

This was even _better_ than breakfast, but as Bucky tucked into his first bite of hotdog, he found he didn't enjoy it as much as he'd expected. Thoughts of Wells lingered on his mind, because his friend was probably still out on that deck, still reading his book, still claiming to be celebrating whilst doing nothing of the sort, and missing out on this excellent meal. All because something was bothering him and Bucky had let himself be chased off.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Carrot sighed, holding up his cup of beer.

"Tradition suggests you drink it, Carrot," said Gusty. "You could try inhaling it, I guess, but it might not work out too well for you."

"My mom says alcohol is awful sinful, Corporal."

"You've _never_ had a drink of alcohol?!" Gusty goggled.

"Never," Carrot smiled happily.

"If it helps," Tipper interrupted, after downing half his beer, "I don't think there's much in the way of _alcohol_ actually in it."

"Mind if I take it off your hands?" Bucky asked. A plan was forming. A plan in which he found out what was wrong with Wells, and then fixed it. Not because he had any sort of _need_ to fix things, but because he didn't wanna see a friend on a downer. It didn't matter that it was Independence Day. It didn't matter that everyone else was celebrating and stuffing themselves with hotdogs. Even if this was just a normal day, Bucky wouldn't've let his friend mope in self-pity, so why should today be any different?

"Of course not, Sarge," said Carrot, sliding it across the table. He looked glad to be rid of it, as if it was a viper about to bite him and commit his soul to hell. Bucky suspected Carrot had been one of those clean-cut kids who'd read the Bible and believed every word of it. Even the ones that contradicted each other.

"Thanks, Carrot. And I'm gonna need your help with something else, too." Because he doubted the sailor on life jacket duty would let him just waltz up on deck with two plastic cups of beer, regardless of the festive mood. Luckily, Bucky thought he'd done enough good turns to pull in a favour or two. "Yours too, Private Biggs."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Ready?" Bucky whispered.

"No!" Carrot hissed back. "Sarge, you know I've never been in a scrap before!"

"You'll do fine," he assured the young corporal. He gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. "Just pretend you're in a movie."

"I've never been in a movie before, either!"

"Just follow my lead, Carrot," said Biggs. "I used to roughhouse with my brothers all the time, when we were younger."

"They're not dead now, are they?"

"Of course not."

"Right, go," Bucky said, nudging both men forward.

He listened as Carrot approached the sailor on door-duty, asked if he could go up on deck. Biggs followed, accused Carrot of stealing something from him. Carrot denied it, his voice high-pitched, damn near terrified. Bucky didn't think the guy was faking it. Biggs was pretty damn big. A scuffle ensued. The sailor tried to break it up. Got dragged in. Bucky used the opportunity to dash past him and out onto the deck. From behind, he heard muffled curses as his subterfuge went undetected.

Without a life jacket he felt exposed, nearly naked, but that couldn't be helped; he didn't have time to put his plastic cups down and don one of the protective vests. As he wound his way through the crowd of soldiers, he tried to act casual, but he was the only one up there without a bright orange jacket, and the only one carrying two cups of beer. It wouldn't be long before a member of the crew noticed and said something.

He found Wells at the back of the ship again; he'd moved position, so that he wasn't lounging in the shade anymore, but sitting with his legs dangling over the side, his arms resting atop the lowest rail, holding his book open in front of him.

"You're not planning on jumping, are you?" Bucky quipped.

"And deprive the Germans the opportunity to shoot at me? Wouldn't dream of it."

Bucky sat down beside his friend and handed over one of the cups. "So. What are we celebrating?"

"4th July, obviously."

"Uh-huh. But why?" He pointed his thumb over his shoulder, to the crowd of troops clustered around the band. "I know _they_ _'re_ celebrating Independence Day, but _you_ _'re_ not. And I don't care what you think about me needing to fix things. Maybe I do, maybe I don't, but I'm not going anywhere until you start being honest with me. So spit it out already."

"Fine." His friend sighed, closing his book and pocketing it. "I'm celebrating the fact that on this day, twenty six years ago, ten years after my folks decided three sons were enough, out I popped."

 _That_ _'s_ what this was about? "You dolt, why didn't you mention it was your birthday?"

"It's not important."

"You've been reading the same book for nearly three weeks, and today you buy a new one. Obviously it is important."

"You read too much into things," Wells snorted.

"If I read too much into things, why didn't you say something earlier? Normally we can't get you to shut up, but today you've been Mr. Evasive."

"You know the worst day a kid can be born on?"

"Christmas?" Bucky guessed.

"Second worst, then."

"Today?"

Wells nodded and fixed his gaze on the horizon. "I guess it's better if you're not born in a military family, but my folks are real patriotic, so that always came first. I guess it's not too bad… at least I got fireworks for my birthday every year. But when I was little, before I was really old enough to understand what it was all about, I used to look around at those military functions my dad dragged us all along to, and wonder why people were celebrating for the wrong reason. Why they were looking up at the sky and cheering flags, instead of me."

Bucky couldn't imagine how horrible that must've been for Wells, growing up, never having a proper birthday because there was always something bigger to celebrate. Today was Steve's birthday, too, but Steve's mom had always spoilt him on his birthday. When they'd been kids, she'd made up for his lack of friends by baking the biggest chocolate cake and arranging the best birthday activities for Steve, and Bucky, and sometimes Mary-Ann. Back home, for Sarah Rogers, Steve had always come first. Always.

He guessed Wells' birthdays had been nothing like that. Small, fun parties with excellent cake were better than fireworks set off in celebration of a completely different event. But it didn't have to be like that now. Wells wasn't a kid, and this wasn't home. They were going to Europe, where 4th July didn't have the same sort of meaning.

"Tell you what, next year, wherever we are, we'll do something fun for your birthday," he offered.

"Do you know the life expectancy of new infantry troops on the front lines?"

"No, and I don't care, because I plan on living forever," Bucky grinned. "And next year, you'll get a proper birthday."

The snarky bitterness came back almost immediately. This time, he was prepared for it. "For godssake Barnes, I don't need you to make me into one of your reclamation projects," Wells scowled. "And I really don't need you to be my surrogate mom."

"Don't be an ass," Bucky told him. "I'm not out here because I think you need someone to hold your hand, I'm here because you're my friend, and friends try to cheer each other up when one of them is sulking and being a really big goddamn child. If that's not good enough for you, then next year we'll do something special for _my_ birthday, and then we'll do something special for _your_ birthday. How does that sound?"

"I dunno," Wells said, but he sounded a little less petulant. "When's your birthday?"

"March."

"Hmm. I suppose that would be okay." He spent a long moment in speculative silence. "You're ancient, y'know. Practically a fossil."

"And you're an ass." He held up his plastic cup of beer. "Happy birthday, Danny."

"Thanks." The plastic cups made for poor clinking, and when Wells took a sip, he quickly pulled his face. "That's awful. Worse than the swill Ramirez finds. Probably even worse than what they serve in England."

"Yeah, it's pretty dire," he admitted. He hadn't thought American beer could taste so flat, and warm, and watery. Tipper had been right.

Wells gave him an easy grin. "Wanna know what I think it _really_ is?"

Bucky looked down into the pale yellow liquid and felt queasy. "No. I really don't." Wells merely laughed, and Bucky recalled another nugget of information that might cheer his friend up. "Hey, did you know Davies was trying to make moonshine outta sugar and water and yeast?"

"Yeah, but it's gonna come out tasting even worse than this piss-water they call beer."

"It's not gonna come out at all; the still exploded."

"It didn't!" his friend grinned, reclining back to prop himself up on his elbow.

"Yeah, Franklin told me."

"He probably filled it too high. It needs room to expand into as the sugar ferments."

"Hey, you!" somebody yelled at Bucky. An angry sailor stormed over, all righteous indignation. "You can't be up here without a life jacket! How did you get out here?"

"He fell outta the sky," said Wells. "I swear to God, I saw it myself. I was just sitting here minding my own business and he landed right beside me."

"Well he can get back below deck before I have him thrown in the brig for breaking ship rules."

"Alright, alright, don't get your lederhosen in a twist," Bucky grumbled. And then, to Wells, "Poker game?"

"I think I'll stay out for now."

"That's too bad," he shrugged. "Murphy said he was gonna clean you out."

"Murphy couldn't even clean out Carrot," Wells said drily. "Nice try though. I'll see you later tonight."

"Okay. Don't have too much fun out here," Bucky told him.

He left his friend in a better mood than he'd found him in. Hopefully now, Wells would start to realise what a lot of the 107th had come to understand. They weren't just a bunch of guys stuck with each other for the purpose of fighting a war; they were friends. And, perhaps even more importantly, they were family. Strange and dysfunctional, maybe, but family nonetheless.


	8. Strategy

_Author_ _'s note: Thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed and (hopefully) enjoyed the story so far! Now, let's take a very brief interlude to see what's going on with this gal._

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _8\. Strategy_

"Agent Carter! Wait up!"

Peggy Carter suppressed a groan of complaint as the call of a familiar voice reached her ears. For two weeks she had been trying to convince Colonel Phillips that civilians had no place on the battlefield. That taking scientists along on any combat mission would represent a liability. For two weeks, Colonel Phillips had been stonewalling her objections, and now she was stuck in the company of one of New York's most irritating natives.

"Escort me to the briefing?" Howard Stark asked with a grin, as he caught up to her just outside the hotel and ran his eyes over her. She refused to stand a little straighter under his frank assessment, but she _did_ give him a frosty glare. When she resumed her march down the busy London street, he launched into a conversation. "I don't suppose I can interest you in a drink or two, after dinner tonight?"

"I don't drink," she told him coolly.

"Really? Is this teetotalling a recent development? Because I saw you and Doctor Erskine go out for drinks two or three times."

"That was different. Doctor Erskine was a friend." And it had been long enough since his death that she was just about able to say his name or think of his face without feeling the sting of unshed tears in her eyes.

"And we're not? We work together. We travel together. We live in the same building. Hell, our rooms in the _Strand_ are just four doors apart!"

"You don't have many friends, do you, Mister Stark?" she asked. Not if _that_ was how he measured friendship.

"Of course I do. I'm rich. Everybody's my friend," he winked, proving that he—perhaps—wasn't quite as oblivious as he seemed at times. "Look, I don't have any sort of ulterior motive here. I just want to have a couple of celebratory drinks with somebody I don't have to talk slowly to."

"What are you celebrating?" Hopefully his swift return to New York.

Stark looked at her as if she was mad. "Fourth of July. Of course, it's nothing like my last Independence Day celebrations—I flew out to the Maldives with a pair of blondes and didn't wear anything more than my swimming shorts for three days—but I'm American, so I've gotta at least make the attempt. Colonel Phillips isn't the socialising type, and my only other alternative is to find a bunch of American soldiers and hope my massive intellect isn't too overwhelming for them. C'mon, Agent Carter, you spent the past year or two in the U.S., so you're practically an American citizen!"

"My grandmother would roll in her grave, to hear that." Grandma Carter had always said Americans were very improper. Then again, Grandma Carter had gotten quite eccentric in her old age; she'd once caught sight of an Indian man wearing a turban—a high-ranking diplomat on a cultural visit, as misfortune would have it—and loudly proclaimed him an avatar of the Devil. Ruffled feathers had taken quite some time to be smoothed over, and Grandma Carter had spent the last eight years of her life confined to a large country estate, whilst she slowly forgot the names and faces of everybody she had ever known and loved.

Grandma Carter would not have approved of Mister Stark. He was everything that annoyed Peggy in a man; arrogant, irreverent, and condescending. And worse, he was a serial womaniser, and completely unapologetic about it. What any woman saw in a man like that, Peggy could not even begin to imagine. Perhaps it was simply the appeal of being 'the one' to settle a man down; 'the one' for whom he would change his ways. If so, it was an incredibly naïve reason to date a man.

"Would your grandmother approve of you letting a frie—a colleague," he corrected, when she glared a snowstorm at him, "—celebrate the birth of his home nation alone?"

"And what is it, exactly, that you're celebrating your home nation's independence _from_ , Mr. Stark?"

"Oppression from greedy and corrupt British governance, of course. But surely we shouldn't let the past stand in the way of fostering new relations. It's hardly my fault that my country revolted, is it?"

She sighed, and sent a mental apology to Grandma Carter in Heaven. "I will have one drink tonight with you, Mr. Stark. _One._ But I won't enjoy it. And after that, you must promise not to ask me out for any further drinks."

"Agent Carter, if I can't woo a woman with one drink, no amount of drinks is ever going to do it. So on that, you have my promise. Besides," he grinned beneath his neatly combed moustache, "you can give me tips."

"Tips?"

"On the sorts of personal foibles English women like. Don't get me wrong, I have all the standard things; charm, intelligence… more money than I know what to do with. Usually that's enough, but maybe… no, actually, I think that's enough. I was just pulling your leg, Agent Carter; no tips will be required."

"How fortunate for me."

They drew very few glances as they walked down the street towards the temporary headquarters the Special Operations Executive had granted them. Stark chattered, but Peggy let his words pass across her mind like water over a duck's back. Being back in London, after so long in New York, was sobering. In America, the war wasn't entirely _real_. Oh, the people there talked about it all the time, and they contributed to the war effort in many different ways, but to most of them it was a fight happening so far from home that at times it seemed more like a moving picture; she'd heard young men in the enlistment lines talking about adventure and glory. They didn't fear the Germans… but then, their cities hadn't been _blitzed_ to rubble.

The last time Peggy had been in London had been at the height of the _Luftwaffe_ _'s_ blitzkrieg campaign. She had memories of long nights spent in the Underground tunnels, listening to the pounding of bombs exploding above. When the nights were at their darkest, she'd often listened to bombs and tried to guess which buildings London had just lost. Which landmarks wouldn't be gracing the skyline when the sheltering population emerged from the tunnels in the morning. How many civilians might have been caught by the _Luftwaffe_ _'s_ sloppy attempts at hitting military targets.

Rubble-laden neighbourhoods weren't the only evidence of the war. She saw signs of it in the faces of those she passed on the streets. Almost everybody was a little hungrier these days, and the clothes they wore a little more tattered and frayed than they would have been in times of prosperity. Nothing was wasted. Every scrap of metal was melted down for guns and bullets and tanks. Clothes that were too small for older children were handed down to younger siblings, donated to orphanages, or sent on for cleaning and bleaching, to be used as blood-rags in field hospitals. Wood and coal and anything that could be burnt in the home was dutifully conserved for the later winter months, and oil lamps were used sparingly. Spent candle ends weren't thrown away, but collected and melted down, to provide the basis for new candles.

And here she walked, well-fed, well-clothed, wearing fine leather shoes, in the company of a man who knew poverty only as some childhood nightmare. A large part of Peggy was proud of how her fellow Britons had pulled together during the war. A small part of her felt like a traitor, for not suffering and sacrificing with them.

The SOE had designated an area under Whitehall to be used as a command centre by the SSR during its mission in Europe. The command centre itself was deep enough underground that Germany's heaviest bombs wouldn't touch it, nestled within a series of catacombs that few knew about and no map had ever described. Entrance was via a secure door in one of the government buildings, and as Peggy approached the manned security post outside the door, she tried to distance herself a little from Stark. He had an annoying habit of hovering too close, as if he didn't know the meaning of the phrase 'personal space.'

"Afternoon, Agent Carter," the guard said, after checking her badge. He checked Stark's, too. "Afternoon, Mr. Stark."

"Tommy, how many times have I gotta tell you to call me 'Howard,'?"

"One more, as always, sir."

"Has Colonel Phillips arrived yet?" Peggy asked the guard.

"Went down ten minutes ago, Agent Carter."

"Good." That meant he hadn't been waiting too long. Colonel Phillips hated to be kept waiting. "Come along, Mr. Stark."

She strode forward towards a second door, which slid open sideways when she tugged at the handle. It opened to reveal a lift—or, as the Americans called them, 'elevator'—which was the only access route that she and the other members of the SSR had been authorised to use.

"You shouldn't encourage the soldiers to behave familiarly, Mr. Stark," she told him, as they began their slow descent. No soft music played in this elevator. It would have been out of place. "Discipline and respect are everything, in the military."

"Having one guard call me by my name is hardly gonna foment military anarchy," he scoffed. "If you ask me, you English are too uptight."

"I _didn_ _'t_ ask you, Mr. Stark," she said. "However, your unsolicited opinion is duly noted."

They found Colonel Phillips drumming his fingers on the table in the underground briefing room, a very impatient expression carved into his craggy face. Peggy mentally prepared herself for a dressing-down.

"Agent Carter, given the English reputation for efficiency and punctuality, I had hoped you'd understand the meaning of 'fourteen-hundred hours _prompt_ ,'. Not fourteen-two, not fourteen-seven, and definitely not fourteen-twelve, but fourteen _prompt_."

"If we're late, it's my fault," said Stark, just as Peggy was opening her mouth to apologise. He gave her a quick wink. "I stopped Agent Carter several times on the walk here to ask her about the best sight-seeing spots."

"Ask in your own time, Stark. This is war, not a holiday. There'll be time for sightseeing once Schmidt and his cult of fanatics are behind steel bars or pushing up daisies. Take a seat, both of you."

Still reeling from Stark's uncharacteristic act of chivalry, Peggy pulled out the chair nearest to her and sat before the man could even _think_ about helping her with it. As soon as they were both seated, Phillips picked up two brown folders from an open briefcase in front of him, and slid them down the table. One, he kept for himself.

"Until today, only eight other people in the whole world had seen the contents of that dossier. It's the joint command's plan to turn the tide of the war."

At a nod of consent from the colonel, Peggy opened the file riding a wave of giddy eagerness. If the Allies had found a path to victory, it couldn't come too soon. There had been far, far too many casualties in this madness. It still hurt, to think of Michael, and she hoped it always would.

Some five minutes later, both she and Stark looked up at the colonel, and she could tell that Stark had just as many questions as she.

"Ambitious," she said.

"Why Italy?" Stark asked. "Wouldn't France be a better strategic target?"

"Yes it would," said Phillips, standing up and pacing as if lecturing raw recruits. "But France is too heavily fortified right now. Italy has been identified as the weakest link on several fronts. First, it's less fortified with German troops than France. Second, their economy is on the brink of collapse, with manufacturing and industry at an all time low. Third, they have a small but active Resistance. The people are ready to rise up and overthrow Mussolini; they just need a little push, and a loss of territory would be all the push they need. Fourth, the Italian army is less organised, less disciplined and less determined than the German army, especially after their losses in North Africa and along the Eastern Front. Intelligence suggests a large-scale surrender of Italian troops is very likely, if faced with the possibility of defeat. And finally, taking and holding Italy would provide a vital staging ground within Europe itself, allowing for a multi-pronged push into France next year."

"And this is happening soon?" Peggy asked. The document in her slightly trembling hands wasn't just a proposal; it was a plan. One that had been painstakingly researched and plotted. Every contingency accounted for.

"Patton will be ready to move on Sicily in less than a week."

There was a deep silence as the weight of those words sank in. For months, fierce fighting in the African Campaign was all anybody had talked about. Now, the fight would be taken out of Africa and pushed into Europe proper. Italy, France, Greece… like a house of cards, the names of countries allied with, or occupied by, the Nazis came falling down inside Peggy's head. Two years. Three, maximum. That was how long the war was projected to last, after Italy fell.

 _If everything goes according to plan,_ a traitor voice inside her mind pointed out.

"How do we fit into this?" she asked. As fascinating as it was to catch a glimpse of the long term plan to save the world from fascism, combat was not the SSR's remit. Soldiers would take Italy, not scientists.

"Glad you asked that, Agent Carter," said Phillips, producing a smaller folder from his briefcase and tossing it over to her. "We're going to France."

"Wait just a minute. Let me get this right," said Stark, holding up both hands. "The bulk of the Army's forces will, in less than a week, be hitting the weakest link with a very hard sledgehammer. Meanwhile we are being sent into the heavily fortified Nazi-occupied France?"

"Correct."

"Far be it from me to question the wisdom of the guys who decide which suicide missions to send us on," said Stark. Peggy tried to shush him with a surreptitious hand movement, but he was in full-blown rant mode. "But shouldn't we be _avoiding_ the very dangerous Nazi-controlled areas? What is it they say? _Fools rush in where General Patton fears to tread_?"

"Mr. Stark," said Peggy, finally grabbing his attention. She slid the smaller dossier over to him, which he picked up and quickly scanned.

"Oh. I see. How did this '9th Infantry' end up in France?" he asked.

Phillips took the floor again. "They were en route from Egypt to England when their transport ship was struck by a torpedo from a U-boat, not far from the coast of Tunisia. The crew made for France, but the ship began to list and take on water. It went down off the French coast at night, and I suspect the Germans thought all hands were lost. A small contingent from the 9th Infantry managed to make it in lifeboats to the coast, where they made contact with local Resistance who got the word back to us. They've dug in somewhere remote and are awaiting our arrival. We leave tomorrow night."

"I'm no great strategist—" said Stark, the humblest Peggy had ever heard him, "—don't get me wrong, I'm a genius, certainly, but that genius does not necessarily equate to military strategy—" Perhaps not _quite_ the humblest she'd ever heard him, "—but the way I see it, there's you, me and Agent Carter here, plus those three candidates we kept from Project Rebirth. Aren't we going to need more than that, plus some half-drowned Infantry regiment, to do what The Powers That Be are asking?" he questioned, tapping his fingers on the smaller dossier.

"Much more," Colonel Phillips agreed. He pulled out a list from his pocket, and passed it to Stark, who quickly glanced at it before passing it to Peggy. She couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips as she read it. "Here are the personnel and ordnance that will be coming with us. In addition, the _King George_ is having some essential repair work done in dock. One week from now, they'll set sail for the Mediterranean to take part in _Operation Husky_. They'll stop en route to drop off a company of new Infantry, some five hundred men. All we have to do is find the 9th and hold out for a week."

"A week in the well-fortified Nazi-controlled country everybody is avoiding," Stark reminded him. "Okay, I know, it's important work. How sure are we about the intel in this file, though? Could Hydra really have established a network of secret communication bunkers in France?"

"If they have, then they've done it behind Hitler's back," Peggy told him. "That means they're bypassing usual German communication lines. If they're not using the same Enigma codes as the rest of the Nazi forces, we can't decipher their plans or lay false trails. And who knows what information they're passing, and to whom? It's imperative we find a way to breach their systems. Just think, Mr. Stark; by this time next month, all of Hydra's secrets could be at your fingertips."

"Agent Carter, you really know how to talk to a guy," he grinned. "One final question, Colonel Phillips. How the heck are we going to get that many people—not to mention the tanks—into France?"

"We'll be travelling on a neutral merchant ship, and the RAF will be providing us with a distraction."

"Ahh." A knowing smile stole across Stark's face. "So you need me along to invent a way for the vehicles to get off the ship and onto land?"

"That's already been taken care of. We'll be trialling a prototype mobile landing platform that, if successful, will see much more use next year. We need you along to help crack those Hydra communication systems and decipher any techno-babble we discover along the way."

"Colonel, I feel compelled to tell you that whilst my Spanish is impeccable, my German is rather lacking. Don't get me wrong, if you need to order schnitzel, I'm your guy. Deciphering German tech-speak? Not so much."

"Don't worry. Capturing those bunkers is only Phase One. Phase Two will be able to assist you with translation."

"And what is Phase Two?"

"I'll tell you en route. Now, if that's all your questions, I'd like a moment in private with Agent Carter."

Uh-oh. Colonel Phillips rarely asked for a room to be cleared; he believed in fairness and transparency, until the mission demanded otherwise. He gave praise and dressings-down in public, though not always in equal measure. Only when expressing personal, rather than professional, displeasure, did he ask for privacy. Whatever this was, it couldn't be good.

"Of course," said Stark, already weaselling his way out of his chair. He gave Peggy another wink. "Catch you later, Agent Carter." Ugh. She _knew_ she'd regret that promise of a drink. He'd probably take every opportunity available to remind her that he'd heroically taken the blame for their tardiness. Expect her to be grateful. If that was the case, he was going to be sorely mistaken; Peggy Carter did not need any man to fight her battles for her.

From out of his briefcase, Phillips pulled a bright, colourful flier. When he handed it to Peggy, her heart sank a little.

" _CAPTAIN AMERICA WANTS_ _YOU_ _!_ _"_ the headline declared in obnoxiously large red letters. Underneath, smaller writing said, _"You saw him first on the streets of New York, where he battled a mob of Nazi spies and saved young Timmy from drowning. Now, Captain America is coming to_ _your_ _town or city! The USO is proud to present the hero of the nation, accompanied by the Star-Spangled Singers! Tickets are on sale_ _NOW_ _(places may be limited at some venues. Children under the age of 18 months must be accompanied by a responsible adult.)_ _"_

Beneath the writing was a picture of… well, it was _probably_ Steve. He had a very distinctive, large, impressive shape since Erskine's serum had taken effect. But if Peggy hadn't seen him immediately post-serum, she would probably not have recognised him. It was as if somebody had taken that flag he'd retrieved from the top of the flagpole at Camp Lehigh, and draped the man in it from head to toe. Only, the uniform managed to be much more garish than the flag. It was bright, it was colourful, it involved tights and a helmet with a mask, and a white letter 'A' on the front. In the picture, he was surrounded by beautiful young women clothed—albeit barely—in equally… colourful costumes.

"Agent," said Phillips, "when I sent you to change Steve Rogers' mind, I didn't expect you to send him on his merry way with a wink and a smile."

 _Wink?!_ "I hardly—"

"Agent, I expected you to bring Steve Rogers to heel by any means necessary. It wasn't rocket science, Agent Carter, otherwise I would have sent Stark. That boy would have followed you anywhere if you'd fluttered your eyelashes at him. Now, instead of a viable subject from which to attempt to recreate Dr. Erskine's formula, we have a clown, on a stage, lining Brandt's pockets with war bonds and pushing the senator's political agenda."

"Senator Brandt is—"

"Don't give me some bull line about Senator Brandt being our most important benefactor, and the voice of the SSR on Capitol Hill. I know what he is, Agent Carter, as do you. After this fiasco, we're lucky he only took Rogers and didn't shut the whole of the division down. We made promises, Agent Carter. Promises that we could create a new breed of soldiers that would put an end to the war, and do it without so much as breaking a sweat. Now what do we have? You, me, and a man who gets distracted as soon as you roll the next shiny thing along the floor in front of him. Hell, we'd be halfway back to where we were if Erskine had trusted Stark enough to give him even a small portion of the serum's formula. But no. Erskine's gone, Rogers is gone, and do you know what we have, Agent Carter? We have bubkis."

"Sir, with all due respect, I think you underestimate Mr. Rogers," she said. " _Again_. He isn't the type of man to immediately become a drooling imbecile the moment a woman smiles at him. He was more than that, and that's just one of the reasons Dr. Erskine chose him." He was also one of the few men Peggy respected enough not to even _try_ exploiting with her God-given feminine assets. He reminded her of Michael, a little. Only, where Michael had been a headstrong, mischievous rogue, Steve was a headstrong, old-fashioned gentleman.

"Besides," she added, "he was following his heart. He saw this as the best way to get to the front lines."

"Agent Carter, hell will be mighty cold before Senator Brandt lets that boy see combat."

Despite Phillips' tone of reprimand, she smiled. "Colonel, I believe Mr. Rogers has a very unique way of overcoming the odds when they're stacked against him. He wanted to sign up, and he did, despite his myriad health problems. He wanted to be chosen for Project Rebirth, and through determination and perseverance, he made it happen. It wouldn't surprise me if, six months from now, he was on the front lines, leading men into battle." She felt her nose wrinkle in distaste as she glanced down at the poster. "Perhaps not wearing _that_ —" because God, it was awful! "—but I wouldn't count him out of the fight just yet, Colonel."

"Agent, are you sure you want to come with us to France?" he tapped the poster with his fingers. "The Star-Spangled Singers may have another opening on their cheerleading squad."

She crossed her arms over her chest, but didn't bother dignifying that particular statement with a response.

"Tomorrow night, Agent Carter. Be ready to leave at nineteen-hundred _prompt_. If you turn up twelve minutes late again, you'll miss the transport."

Standing, she offered a salute. "Yes sir."

"And tell Stark he's not to bring the whole of his laboratory with him, this time. We're travelling light."

"Sir, you know he'll insist on bringing—"

Phillips hand-waved that particular problem away. "I know, I know. But if it keeps him quiet, he can bring it. Hell, it might even come in useful. Dismissed, Agent Carter."

"Sir, before I go, I was wondering if I might have tomorrow morning to myself," she said. For over two and a half years she'd worked for the SSR and not asked for a single moment off. Now that she was back in England, she couldn't leave it without first seeing her family. Going home was never easy—neither of her parents approved of her career choice, and they supported her only because Michael had wanted it—but she was their only surviving child, and she was about to head into the heart of a Nazi-controlled country. If anything befell her, she would never forgive herself for not saying goodbye to her parents.

"Fine, take the morning. Hell, take the afternoon, too. Just be on that dock for nineteen hundred."

She saluted again, but he didn't see it. His gaze was fixed on the USO poster; the only splash of colour in the room. A tiny smile crept its way across Peggy's lips. _A splash of colour_. That's how she'd felt, after meeting Steven Rogers. After seeing him struggle and persevere. After talking with him in a way that few men ever talked to her. No, she would not count him out of the war just yet. And she was willing to bet he was the only man in the whole of New York who would be utterly miserable being surrounded by beautiful, scantily clad dancing girls.


	9. Tales from the Tween

_Author_ _'s Note: Those who have read my previous story, 'Running To You,' may find this chapter very familiar; most of what's here has been covered in the form of Bucky's flashbacks. Here, I've tried to tweak the action and dialogue to bring it into the present, rather than looking back from the future (also retconned one or two minor details. Nothing important). In my last fic, this would have been the introduction of Wells, and the second chapter featuring Carrot. I didn't want to change it too much, so I hope the narrative isn't too jarring. Thanks to everyone for your feedback so far, it's great to hear your thoughts/impressions of the story! :-)_

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _9\. Tales from the Tween_

The air was filled with rumbling snores, some of them so loud that they almost drowned out the creaking, groaning complaints of the USS _Monticello_ _'s_ hull as the Atlantic Ocean tried to crush it inward. Bucky lay awake in his hammock, trying not to think of how much bigger than everything else the ocean was. How much colder, how much darker.

There was a quiet squeal of fabric and metal, and a head appeared hanging upside down from the hammock above, a pair of bright blue eyes watching him from above a thick shock of jet-black hair.

"Morning, Barnes."

"Morning, Wells."

"I ever tell you what happened to the USS _San Fran_?"

"Only every single day since we weighed anchor in New York." Wells' favourite way of greeting his comrades each morning was to recount the stories of every U.S. ship sunk in the Atlantic crossing. He was crazy.

"U-boat, less than a day out from the Med. Nothing its escort, the _Lansdale_ , could do except watch the ship go down. Know how many troops were aboard the _San Fran_?"

"Over six-thousand," Bucky sighed by rote.

"Yeah. And you know how much space was available on the _Landsale_?"

"Not enough."

"Exactly." Wells swung down from his hammock and took a seat on somebody's over-packed duffel bag. "Imagine that. Having to watch all those men abandon their sinking transport, watch them swim to your ship, knowing you can't possibly take them all aboard without sinking your own vessel too. Knowing that there's still a U-boat down there, setting its sights on you, ready to open fire, knowing your warship is fast enough to outrun it, but not if you hang around to pluck those men out the ocean. Pretty messed up, huh? Coincidentally, do you know how many troops are aboard our fair tub?"

Bucky shrugged. In the fourteen days they'd been aboard the _Monticello_ , he'd come to love Wells like a brother. And also hate him, like a brother. "Couple of thousand?"

"Yeah, a couple of thousand. Plus the crew." Wells gave him a cheery grin. "Got a look at our escort ship while stretching my legs on deck last night. It's the _Lansdale_."

"For Godssake, Wells, stick a cork in it," someone from the 107th grumbled from further down the row of hammocks.

"How many additional crew can the _Lansdale_ take?" asked Carrot, three hammocks away. Bucky could hear the worried tinge in the young man's voice over the creaking of the hull.

"Three hundred, maybe four at a push?" Wells gave Carrot another cheerful grin. "Don't worry, Carrot. We're well below the waterline down here. In the event of U-boat attack, you'll likely be dead long before you have to worry about the _Lansdale_ sailing off and leaving you behind."

"Don't be an ass," Bucky told him.

"I can't help it. I come from a long line of asses. I have a legacy to uphold." Wells looked around the cramped tweendeck as more of their fellow soldiers began to wake. "Must be nearly 5am now." He straightened up where he sat, as if preparing for inspection. Of course, if there really was an inspection, he wouldn't be lounging at his ease in his underclothes. "Sergeant Barnes, would you care to join me for a short repast of slop in the galley of this most venerable vessel?"

"Certainly, Sergeant Wells, it would be my pleasure." Bucky slid out of his hammock and grabbed his pants and a shirt.

"Et tu, Corporal Robbins?"

"I have no idea what you even said."

"He wants to know if you'll join us for breakfast," Bucky explained. He tugged on his boots and waited for Wells to get up off the ass he liked to talk out of so much.

The three men left the tweendeck while the majority of the company were still stirring from sleep. The word 'cramped' did not adequately describe their living quarters. Five regiments' worth of duffel bags, helmets, gas masks, backpacks, sleeping rolls, field kits and rifles were stashed anywhere an open space allowed. A guy couldn't go ten paces without having to scramble over someone else's equipment. It was like the assault course at Camp McCoy all over again, only more precarious, because at least you were expecting an obstacle course back at camp. Half a dozen soldiers had already tripped over equipment and hurt themselves bad enough to end up in the ship's infirmary.

 _Or_ , Bucky thought, as he offered an apology when he banged his shoulder against someone's hammock and almost toppled the guy out, the soldiers who'd tripped had then _faked it_ enough to end up in the infirmary. Pretty spacious, that infirmary. And it had real beds, too. Real beds that didn't swing with the rolling and heaving of the ship dancing atop the ocean.

Bucky led the way through the bowels of the ship, followed by Wells and then Carrot, the latter offering some quiet chatter about a dream he'd had last night; a dream of reaching England, only to be told that the war was over and the Allies had won. A dream of the ship turning around before docking at port, taking Carrot back to his beloved Samantha. Bucky said nothing. He had no right to burst another guy's bubble. Besides, it was nice to dream sometimes.

When they reached the galley they joined the back of a long line of men waiting to be served their first of two meals of the day. After fourteen days aboard, Bucky still had no idea how many regiments were represented aboard the _Monticello_. It was hard enough trying to keep track of the five regiments sequestered in the tween. Sometimes, it was like sharing a room with five hundred three-year-old Charlies.

"You know much about the slave trade, Corporal?" Wells asked, leaning against one of the metal bulkheads of the ship. Bucky fought back a grin, and a few of the nearby soldiers from other regiments drifted closer to the trio. Hearing Wells go off on one of his tangents was usually amusing. Often uncomfortable, but amusing nonetheless.

"What? Me? Err, no. Why?" Poor Carrot. He was a nice guy, but he wasn't the smartest fish in the bowl. Wells was too damn smart for his own good. Bucky knew it. Carrot knew it. Wells certainly knew it.

"Those slave ships weren't like this fine tub of steel we get to be ferried around in. Big galleys made of wood, no way to pass the time 'cept by tossing knucklebones of deceased crewmen—" Carrot paled "—and singing songs about some big girl named Bertha. Took 'em weeks to cross the Atlantic, back in the old days, even with fair wind in the sails. Know what the biggest danger was?"

"If you say U-boats, I'll know you're bullshitting and I won't listen to another word you say," Carrot scowled. "Err, sir."

Wells shook his head. "Not U-boats. Not sharks. Not storms. Not even the giant kraken monsters which lurk in the deepest depths of the ocean. No, the biggest danger was scurvy, and rickets, and tooth decay. Imagine it: weeks spent in a floating tub, and nothing to eat except fish caught in the nets. All that salt making you thirsty, no fresh water except the swill you brought with you. No fresh fruit, no milk… you're basically just drying up from the inside. Then your teeth start to fall out."

"Shut up."

"Of course, the slaves had it worst. Weeks below deck, no moving around, no sunshine. Just long, hellish days below the waterline, withering away in the dark, cramped together, chained to the guy next to you, and to the hull of the tub. And if a slave died, it might be days before the crew took him away and tossed him over the side." The line shuffled forward, and Wells continued gleefully. "The worst journeys were the ones right at the end. See, the world was starting to say, _'Hey, this slavery bullshit, it's not right.'_ So everyone still trading in slaves knew their time was numbered, and had to make the quickest buck. Used to be they'd take fifty or sixty at a time. Slaves got to move around on deck a bit, get some exercise, because what the hell, right? You've got all the time in the world, and a whole continent of black people to exploit. Might as well make sure your slaves get to the New World fit and ready to work.

"But at the end, they couldn't afford to do fifty or sixty at a time. So they packed 'em in there, four, five hundred in a single hold, all chained up in the dark, no fresh water, no fresh food. You take fifty or sixty and afford them a bit of attention and exercise, and most of them might make the journey. But four hundred? You can't let that many slaves out, they might start something. So they just put 'em down there and every couple of days they threw a load of saltwater down, and at the end of the journey—keep in mind, this took weeks—they'd open up the hold and see how many were left, and they'd be lucky to get half of them out alive, all wilted and emaciated 'cos they'd been in the dark and fed nothing fresh for weeks."

Bucky felt his insides squirm throughout Wells' monologue. He knew the guy was mostly bullshitting, but that didn't make the bullshit any easier to imagine. And Carrot seemed to be swallowing it pretty hard. Carrot swallowed everything hard. If you told him the sky was pink, he'd believe it until he saw for himself that it wasn't.

"Is there a reason you're telling me this, Sarge?" asked Carrot, as the line moved again and Bucky and his friends neared the front of the queue.

"Just educating you on the fine, upstanding naval traditions of our fair country, Carrot," Wells grinned.

They reached the front of the line, picked up a tray each, and had something lumpy and yellowish-beige slopped onto it. Three dented spoons followed.

"Ahh, grits," Wells sighed melodramatically. "All praise President Roosevelt; no expense spared." He lifted his blue eyes to the galley cook who'd served him. "I hear the _Lansdale_ crew get a proper fry-up every morning. Can you confirm?" The cook responded with steely silence. Judging by the grip on his ladle, Bucky suspected the guy was a hair away from beating Wells to death with it. Fourteen days straight of grits for breakfast had eroded his friend's ability to hold back the full extent of his sarcasm.

"C'mon," Bucky said, nudging Wells away from the serving area. "You can be an ass with us because we're your friends, but don't be an ass to the crew 'cos you know they'll take it out on all of us at dinner time."

"You're asking me to discriminate," Wells replied. "I gotta share the love. I can't let you guys get it all."

But Wells let himself be directed away, to one of the standing shelf-like tables in the mess. It wasn't the most comfortable way of eating, but the long tables running the length of the mess were the only way an entire complement of soldiers being taken to the front lines could be served twice a day. The _Monticello_ wasn't too bad, because it could only carry a couple of thousand men, but some of the larger transports must've been hell to live in. Six or seven thousand soldiers at a time, all trying to eat, and drink, and sleep, and get exercise up on deck… made a guy appreciate the _Monty_ and its grits.

At the end of the table, they rinsed and dumped their trays into a rapidly growing pile, and left the noise of the mess behind.

"Don't know why they don't just feed us out of a trough," Wells sighed. "Trust me, boys, they'll have troughs installed before the end of this campaign." He rubbed his hands together. "So. I need to get some slightly less stale air. Stretch my legs. Who's with me?"

"I'm gonna go back to the tween, write my girl a letter," said Carrot. He'd already written four letters to Samantha, on the two-week voyage, which had been dutifully squirrelled away in his duffel, ready for posting when they reached port. Bucky hoped she liked reading the same thing over and over again; it wasn't as if anything worth writing about had actually happened. The first day aboard had been a novelty, but that novelty soon wore thin.

Bucky let Wells lead the way to the upper deck, where they were met by one of the ship's crew who forced life jackets onto them. Not for the first time, Bucky wondered how many clumsy soldiers had actually slipped and fallen overboard. He posed the question to Wells as they dodged the mass of soldiers taking advantage of one of the rare non-rainy days to get some fresh air and sun.

"I don't think it's in case you fall," said Wells. "I think it's so that if you're up on deck when the U-boat attacks, you stand a chance of floating until you can be rescued."

"Then why don't they make the sailors wear them, too?"

"Well, because they're sailors. They're supposed to go down with their ship, aren't they?" Wells grinned. "We don't get to go down until we reach the front lines."

"Wonder where we'll be posted," Bucky mused. France, Greece, Italy, Africa… once, they'd been nothing more than names on a map, places mentioned in school, foreign countries full of exotic words and even more exotic people. Now, those distant lands had gotten a hell of a lot closer.

"I don't care where we end up. Fighting's fighting, it doesn't really matter where you do it." Another of Wells' trademark grins danced across his face, filling his blue eyes with excitement. "I'm more interested in getting to London."

"Why?"

"English dames, pal. Something about their accents sends chills up my spine. And down it, too." Wells threw an arm around Bucky's shoulders, gesturing expansively with his free hand as he lay out a scene. "Picture it. The women of London, missing their dads and their brothers and whatnot… all depressed because they only just got outta one big war which deprived them of a large number of their men-folk… we're already practically heroes just for signing up to come over here. We'll sweep into London with our roguish good looks and wild frontier charm, go dancing every night before we're posted—"

"You _have_ seen Corporal Robbins, right?"

Wells gave a dismissive wave. "Forget him. We're leaving him behind. He has darling Samantha, anyway. He wouldn't dare step out, he's not an idiot. It's you and me. So anyway, beautiful English dames, surrounded by all that culture, and—"

"And didn't London just get the hell blitzed out of it?" Bucky interrupted again. "Surrounded by all that rubble, more like."

"C'mon pal, this is my parade, and I didn't bring an umbrella. Work with me here. London's rebuilt. Trust me, it's there, it's not going anywhere. If a plague and a Great Fire and some guy with a load of gunpowder couldn't get rid of it, a few German bombs don't stand a chance. So, first opportunity we get, we need to—"

A sudden and loud cry from one of the ship's crew cut off Wells' plans of seducing England's entire population of eligible dames. "LAND!"

When he saw the grin on his friend's face, Bucky knew it mirrored his own. Together they joined the flood of soldiers racing to the port—or was it starboard? Ah, who cared!—side of the ship for their first sight of land in two weeks. Bucky felt like a kid getting ready for his first day of school. No… like a man getting ready for his first date. This was it. This was the real start of the war.

"White cliffs," said Wells, squinting at the tiny sliver of land on the horizon. "Give it an hour, and we'll be seeing white cliffs. From there, it's just a short march to London. We'll be sipping beer and wooing dames by this time tomorrow. Mark my words, Barnes. Mark them."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The air was charged with nervous excitement. It hadn't taken long for word of land to spread, and before midday every single soldier had been up onto the deck to feast his eyes on the sight of England. Carrot had returned to the tween deck almost immediately, to add to his letter a vivid description of how green and beautiful England looked after two weeks at sea, even though he'd only got a short glimpse of a greyish-brown coastline. The guy had one heck of an imagination.

That had been twelve hours ago. England had grown steadily larger—and greener, Bucky was pleased to note—and at long last the ship had come into the harbour… and waited. They had waited and waited. After midday, the soldiers had been ordered below deck, instructed to pack up and remain in their quarters until called for debarkation.

"What's taking so long?" Carrot grumbled. He was sitting atop his duffel, like half of the soldiers were, his photo of Samantha in his hands. "We're here, why won't they let us get off this death trap?"

"For reasons of common sense which have no doubt gone over your head, Corporal," said Wells.

"Enlighten us lowly grunts, Sarge." A few other servicemen were clustered around Bucky's hammock, most of them looking less twitchy than Carrot. Bucky supposed that was what you did, when you weren't certain about something. You stuck close to the guy with the highest rank. Followed his lead. Too bad there were no officers for Bucky to stick close to. All the officers were already in England, already on the front lines.

"Y'wanna help me enlighten the men, Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky gave a dismissive wave. Heckling the lower enlisted ranks was one of Wells' favourite pastimes, and it was mostly harmless banter. This would probably be the last chance his friend got to do it.

"Alrighty. First of all, how are you gonna get to shore, Carrot? Your gear weighs over a hundred pounds, your helmet is a commode of solid steel, and your rifle won't be worth shit after you've taken it for a moonlit swim in the harbour."

"Well," Carrot sulked, "I expect there'll be boats."

"Yeah, but the boats aren't here on the Monty, are they? Unnecessary weight. So, the boats come from port. What do you think, the English just leave their flotilla in the middle of the harbour, prime target for Kraut planes and U-boats? No, they gotta assemble the fishing fleet to bring us to shore, right? And since it's too dangerous to tell a port exactly when a shipload of brave American soldiers is expected, lest we draw the ire of our fiendish foes, they weren't expecting us right now, so it'll take 'em some time to get those boats out here."

"Wait a minute," Bucky interrupted, pretending to hunt around his belongings. "I think I got your soapbox around here somewhere."

"Hardy-har, Barnes. Anyway, as I was saying… we need small craft to get us to shore. Only an idiot would do that in broad daylight. What if there's a U-boat down there waiting to take a pop? What if an enemy plane flies overhead and sees us debarking? Who knows how many German spies are in that port, counting us like sheep, ready to report back troop movements to their damn Führer? Why do you think we embarked in New York in the pitch black of night in the first place? That, Corporal Robbins, is why we're sittin' here in this death trap. Any other questions?"

"I got one," Bucky grinned. Wells could be a little harsh sometimes, and the 107th were tense enough already. "Do you have to go sideways through doors, to get your big head through them?"

A few of the soldiers laughed, and Wells gave him a punch on the arm. "I actually have my arrival announced by a troupe of dancing children. They enlarge the doors for me in advance. But thanks for your concern, Sergeant Barnes, it is duly noted."

"Hey Sarge," said Franklin, pulling Wells' attention away from Carrot. "You wrote any letters home yet?"

"Naw. Who'm I gonna write to? My folks got four sons in the forces now, so I didn't get a tearful farewell, just a _'Don't go leaving a bunch of bastards in every port'_ as I went out the front door. Come to think of it, I might've told my dad I was joining the navy, like my oldest brother, Tim. Guess that explains the warning. Tim's got two bastards at least, and I think one of 'em's in the Phillies."

"Don't you have a girl waiting for you?"

"Sure. One in every port. Two, in some." Wells grinned. "I'm not the one-rider type, Franklin. You settle for one girl, and soon enough you've got a house and a mortgage and a bunch of kids runnin' around driving you crazy. I really do admire guys like Carrot here, who can be happy with one girl for the rest of their lives." He clapped a hand atop Carrot's knee, making the young corporal jump.

"Really, Sarge?" Carrot sounded shocked by Wells' admission of admiration.

"Yeah, of course," Wells smiled. But there was a wicked gleam in eyes that made Bucky sit up a little straighter. Whatever his friend was up to, it couldn't be good. "I mean, I really do admire your dedication, and your love, and especially your self-control."

"Err, self-control, Sarge?"

Wells gestured at the picture in Carrot's hands. "Sure. You bring her out every night and just look at her. If it were me, I'd be doing more than looking. I'd be asking the rest of you to get the hell out of the tween for twenty minutes, maybe thirty if it had been a few days. Whaddya say, Corporal? Last night on the _Monty_. Y'want us to give you and your girl a little alone time?"

"I should have known you weren't being serious, Sarge," Carrot scowled.

Bucky sent a mental plea for Wells to leave it there. Of course, Wells was an ass, so he didn't.

"I'm being deadly serious, Corporal. Tell you what then, since you're not making the most of your pretty girl, what about sharing a little love with the rest of us? I know I wouldn't mind ten minutes alone with Samantha, and Franklin's got nobody wai—"

Bucky had watched as Carrot's face turned an angry shade of red from his neck up to his hairline, so he was ready to move as soon as the Corporal lunged at Wells; he managed to catch the younger man in a tackle, wrestling Carrot to the ground as he flailed and shrieked curses at Wells. There was no chance of Carrot seriously hurting Wells—the guy was almost as good at boxing as Bucky—but the last thing he wanted was for Carrot to get the rap for assaulting a fellow soldier before he'd even reported for duty.

"Hey fellas, why don't you take Wells for a walk up the tween deck… let him loose on the 101st, and mind his head in those narrow gaps," Bucky instructed the others present, as he held Carrot pinned to the floor in an arm lock.

Carrot continued to flail ineffectively as the rest of the group shepherded Wells up the deck, to where the 101st were holed up. Only when his friend was out of sight did Bucky release the struggling young man.

"You shouldn't've stopped me, Sarge," Carrot scowled, straightening his shirt. "Wells had it coming."

"Maybe. But you know what Wells is like. He didn't mean anything by it."

"He did, Sarge. I could tell."

Bucky plucked the picture of Samantha, dropped in the scuffle, up from the floor and handed it back to Carrot. "Next time, Corporal, just ignore him. He's only jealous you've got such a pretty girl waiting for you back home."

"Yeah, maybe. Sorry, Sarge. Guess I just lost my head a little."

"Well, get it found." Bucky gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder. This wasn't the only fight he'd seen narrowly averted over the past few days, but it was the first involving the 107th. "We're all tense, it's been a rough two weeks, but now we're here you can't go letting Wells, or anyone else, get to you. Save it for the Krauts, alright?" Carrot nodded. "Good. Now, get yourself straightened up. I'm gonna send the guys back, it can't be much longer till we leave."

He left Carrot and made his way up the deck, eyes and ears open for the sound of another fight. Luckily, the prospect of debarkation seemed to have doused the flames which had erupted so often in close quarters; everybody seemed to be getting along with their hammock-neighbours.

In the area appropriated by the Screaming Eagles, he found Franklin, Tipper and Davies watching a game of poker, into which Wells had insinuated himself. Bucky nodded at the privates and they left the way he'd arrived, heading back to their own little corner of the tween. For a moment he stood watching as another round of cards was dealt. Wells had a two-pair of kings and tens. The last thing he wanted was another regiment pissed at his friend.

"He folds," Bucky said, plucking the cards from Wells' hands and laying them face down on the table.

"Sorry boys, my mom wants a word with me," Wells said, with an apologetic smile for the Screaming Eagles.

A little further down the deck, in the two-foot no-man's-land which separated the 101st from the 93rd, Bucky stopped his friend, waiting for Wells to turn and face him.

"You were out of order back there, Danny," he said.

"But funny, no?" Wells grinned. When Bucky didn't return the expression, the smile slipped from his face. "Damn, _James_ , that's one hell of a poker face. Remind me never to play against you again." He rolled his eyes. "Alright. I'm sorry. Okay? You know I was just goofing around."

"At the start of the voyage you were goofing around. Now, with Carrot, you're just being plain mean. You know he's crazy-stupid where his girl's concerned. You were prodding him on purpose."

"Yeah." Wells sighed and ran a hand through his jet-black hair, his blue eyes troubled. "You got me."

"Do I get an explanation?"

"Hell no. You're not actually my mom, Barnes. I don't answer to you. And don't do that rank-pulling bullshit on me; we have the same rank an' I got seniority on account of the fact that I got to Last Stop before you." Bucky opened his mouth to object, but Wells hurried on. "Look, I said I'm sorry, and I mean it. That wasn't me being flippant. And when we get back, I'll apologise to Carrot too, okay?"

Bucky decided to let it rest. Whatever Wells' problem, he seemed ready to let it go. Probably just _actual_ cabin-fever, this time. "Okay."

"And I appreciate you stopping Carrot from doin' anything stupid. I didn't wanna have to hurt the kid."

"Well, I had to stop one of you, and he listens to reason better than you."

"Amen."

"If you feel like you need to make someone your punching bag, do me a favour and lay off Carrot, okay?"

"You have my word." Proving, not for the first time during the voyage, that he really did run hot and cold, Wells threw an arm around Bucky's shoulders, and with a familiar grin and a nefarious gleam in his eyes, said, "So, Sergeant Barnes. Do you know much about the slave trade?"


	10. The Rock and the Hard Place

We Were Soldiers

 _10\. The Rock and the Hard Place_

According to Bucky's watch, it was nearly one o'clock in the morning by the time the troops housed in the tween deck were sent up to disembark, and everyone was on edge. Tipper's fingers flipped his coin with such rapid fluidity that it had an eerie, hypnotic quality to it, and Gusty's flatulence had become almost unbearable. Wells drummed his fingers impatiently on the hammock frame, and even Bucky jumped at every small _clang_ which might have been a member of the crew come to fetch them at last.

Finally up on deck, Bucky discovered that Wells' prediction of a fishing fleet was not entirely inaccurate. Although there was a dock, it was smaller than he had been expecting, and several large vessels were already berthed at it, leaving no room for the _Monty_. A flotilla of small vessels was clustered around the troop transport, many already heading for the dock laden with troops from another section of the ship.

As he waited in line, he turned his gaze to the city and saw… nothing. He could just about, by the light of the crescent moon, make out the outline of the highest buildings against the night sky, but everything else was dark and indistinguishable. It was as if there wasn't even a city there.

"Why's London so dark?" he whispered to Wells. Wells knew everything, because the things he didn't know, he made up convincing bullshit for.

"Blackout, to stop the _Luftwaffe_ being able to target buildings easier. I hear they're so paranoid about being bombed that they even build 'fake' towns with streets and lights, a few miles away from any potential target, to distract the Kraut planes. Germans drop their bombs on a big fat load of nothing. It's quite ingenious. Can you imagine trying to blackout New York and build a fake city outside it? And they don't just do it for London, they do it for all the big cities. Crazy, right?"

"Crazy," he agreed. The queue of men waiting to descend the rope ladders hung over the rail of the ship shuffled forward, and now Bucky was so close that he could hear the water lapping against the hull of the boat, just as it had in Piermont. "Nervous?" he asked.

"Nervous about hauling my own body weight's worth of stuff down a flimsy rope ladder and onto a tiny little toy boat?" Wells grinned. "Not at all. You?"

"Well, I _wasn_ _'t…_ "

"Don't worry, pal." Wells clapped him on the shoulder. "It'll be fun."

"What do I do if I fall overboard, Sarge?" Carrot piped up from behind. "I can't swim."

"Just stick close to us, Carrot," said Bucky, before Wells could chime in with the unhelpful suggestion of _'try to drown quietly.'_ "We won't let anything happen to you. Right, Wells?"

"Hrmph," Wells agreed.

When they reached the rope ladder, Bucky went down first, then made Carrot come straight after him. The young man gripped the ladder so tightly that his knuckles were white, and as soon as his feet hit the small boat with a heavy _clunk_ , he sat down on a bench and refused to budge even an inch. A few minutes later, the boat was full with a dozen members of the 107th, and it made a chugging beeline for the dock.

Halfway to the dock, Wells looked down at the bottom of the boat. "Are we taking on water?"

Bucky looked down too. The moonlight was shining off a puddle of water, but he'd been on small craft before—sailing boats and canoes—and he knew it wasn't anything to be alarmed about.

"It's natural for small boats to get a bit of water in the bottom," he said.

"Yeah, but the bit of water doesn't usually get _deeper,_ does it?"

He looked again. Was it his imagination, or had the puddle gotten deeper? No, that was crazy. It was just Wells, puttin' ideas in his head, trying to rile him up. Only… yes, the puddle that hadn't quite reached his foot before was now lapping over his toes.

"Hey," he called to the man steering the ship from the small wheel in the front of the cabin, "I think your boat's leaking back here."

Carrot let out a nervous squeak.

"Oh, don't worry about that!" the man in the cabin called over his shoulder in a cheerful English accent. "It always does that when it's overloaded. You Americans sure do like to bring heavy bags with you! There are a couple of buckets back there for bailing out if it gets too bad, but _Miss Fortune_ here has never floundered once." The guy happily patted the side of the vessel like it was a favoured pet.

"English people are all mad," Wells whispered to Bucky. He tossed one of the buckets to Gusty, and they began to bail out.

When the boat reached the dock, thankfully without sinking, Bucky sent Carrot up the iron ladder first, and made sure he was the last to leave the vessel. As his feet found dry land after two weeks of being at sea, he heard the sound of the boat fading away as its owner took it back out to the _Monty_ , completely uncaring of how much water it had taken on. Wells was right. These people were _mad._

The view of London from the dock was no better than the view from the ship. The streets were black as pitch, so men were bumping into each other, stepping on toes, tripping over big metal rings built into the harbour wall… for a few minutes all was chaos. Then they found the rest of the disembarked troops and lined up while they waited for the rest of the _Monty_ to be evacuated.

True to form, they waited, and then they marched. The whole city was quiet as they passed through, and Bucky couldn't make out any of the landmarks he'd been expecting: the Thames, Westminster, the Tower of London…

Soon they'd marched right out of the city and into the open countryside, which was also kinda odd, since he'd expected to march for more than a couple of miles before being in open countryside. As they began their fourth mile of the march, he stepped a little closer to Wells to whisper to his friend.

"London was kinda small, wasn't it?"

"I guess we're just used to New York. I thought it would be bigger, too. Very over-hyped, if you ask me."

After about five miles of marching, they reached what appeared to be a sprawling camp nestled in a valley between two long, low hills. Here, for the first time since leaving the _Monticello_ , they found light. Several soldiers in dress uniform were waiting beneath a large awning which seemed to serve as a gateway to the camp. As the troops arrived, officers stepped forward to claim ownership of the men.

"107th Infantry!" a reedy voice barked out.

Bucky glanced at Wells, whose face showed a complete lack of moral support, and the two led the regiment over to the man who'd called out. They found themselves standing in front of an officer, and issued swift salutes.

"Sergeant James Barnes," Bucky said.

"Sergeant Daniel Wells," his friend added.

The officer glanced over them, and now that they were closer, Bucky could tell that the guy was young. Younger than Bucky by at least a couple of years, and shorter by two or three inches. The bar on his sleeve indicated the rank of Second Lieutenant, and the unimpressed derision on his face made Bucky's heart sink; he had a bad feeling about this.

"Tell me, Sergeants," the man in front of them said, "since you did your basic training, have you forgotten how to address an officer?"

"No, sir," Bucky said for both of them. In truth, they'd barely stood on ranking at all, whilst on the _Monty_. Wells had outright discouraged anyone from calling him 'sir,' and neither of them had been bothered if the men called them by their names rather than their ranks. Clearly, this wasn't good enough for their new officer.

Bucky's response seemed to mollify the man. "That's better. My name is Second Lieutenant Jacob Danzig. Whilst on this base you will report directly to me. The 107th barracks is in the north-eastern quarter; Sergeant Weiss will see that you're settled in and will familiarise you with everything in the camp. I'll expect you and your men dressed for exercise and drill at oh-five-hundred exactly. Is that clear?"

Bucky pointedly _didn_ _'t_ look at Wells this time, because he knew the expression on his friend's face would match the sinking feeling in his own chest. Exercise and drill on a couple of hours' sleep at most, when the men would still be trying to find their land-legs after the long voyage? It was cruel. It was unusual. He suspected Lieutenant Danzig was both, and that he probably wouldn't take anything other than a 'yes sir' well at all.

"Yes sir," he agreed, and Wells echoed his response with considerably less false enthusiasm.

They both saluted again, then led the 107th into the camp, to look for their new barracks. They found it after a few minutes of searching, and piled inside the empty building to dump their heavy gear and make up their beds.

"Exercise and drill!" Wells grumbled, punching his pillow into a white cotton pillow case. Bucky didn't have to ask what his friend was _really_ punching. "What a jerk."

"Not much we can do about it except try to stay on his good side," Bucky shrugged.

"Don't go turning brown-noser on me," Wells warned.

"Life's gonna be tough enough once we've got Germans shooting at us," he said. "No point having a pissed off lieutenant riding our backs all the time."

"Y'know, you're annoyingly equanimous at times."

"Tell you what; you try to go a little easier on the men, and I'll ask 'how high?' every time Danzig says 'jump.' Deal?"

"Fine," Wells sulked, as he shrugged off his jacket, pulled off his boots and climbed into bed. "Just don't expect me to go holding Carrot's hand every time something new scares him."

Bucky grinned at the mental image, but said nothing. The thought of running to the lieutenant's beck and call was not exactly appealing, but if it would help keep the peace, it was a sacrifice he would willingly make. Besides, how bad could one lieutenant be?

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Two hours later, he found out exactly how bad one lieutenant could be. Danzig wasn't happy with their drill, so he made them do it three times. Then he wasn't happy with their lap speed around the camp, so he made them do it five times. By the end of the run, everybody was sweating and exhausted, and Bucky was afraid that the members of the 107th who'd already been there for months and had joined them for 5 o'clock drill, now hated the newcomers for making their lives more difficult.

Finally, Lieutenant Danzig seemed satisfied—or at least, marginally less _dis_ satisfied—and dismissed the men to the showers and breakfast. As the senior sergeant approached Bucky and Wells with two corporals in tow, Bucky noticed that none of the other regiments in the camp had been forced to undergo drill and laps at five o'clock in the morning.

"Sergeant John Weiss," the older man said. He had a smattering of grey in his brown hair, and the shoulder sleeve insignia on his right arm showed that he'd served with the 107th during the last war. Bucky wondered if the guy had known his father. Maybe he'd even known Steve's father, who'd died after getting hit with mustard gas. "This is Corporal Jones and Corporal Scott."

"James Barnes," Bucky offered, shaking their hands.

"Danny Wells," his friend echoed.

"Jones and Scott will show your men where all the facilities are while we talk business."

Bucky watched wistfully as the two corporals directed Carrot, Gusty and the others towards one of the shower blocks. He wanted to join them, because his sweat-soaked shirt had started to cool and cling uncomfortably, but he got the impression that Sergeant Weiss wasn't a man you said 'later' to.

Weiss eyed the pair of them up for a moment, and Bucky forced himself to stand still beneath the older man's scrutiny. Weiss' blue eyes were sharp, his face just a little creased around the corners of his mouth and eyes. He must have been approaching fifty, but apart from the grey in his hair, he seemed unaffected by age.

"How old are you boys?" Weiss asked at last.

"Twenty-six," said Bucky.

"Ditto," Wells added.

Weiss nodded. "Good. Old enough that I don't have to hold your goddamn hands every minute of the day. So, listen up, 'cos I'm not gonna say this twice. If I see either of you jumping to obey Dancing, I'm gonna come down on you like a ton of bricks."

"Dancing?" Wells asked him.

" _Lieutenant_ Danzig," said Weiss, pulling a face that showed exactly what he thought of their officer. "That's his name now. Probably shouldn't call him that to his face, because the jumped-up like pimple-popper likes to show what a big important man he is by making an example outta anyone who even looks at him like his farts don't smell of roses. Nothing much he can really do, of course, because even the idiot who runs this base wouldn't be mad enough to give Dancing any real authority, but the lieutenant doesn't know that. Make no mistake; the enemy in this war is not the Krauts, or the Japs, it's ignorant toe-rags like Dancing."

"Are you suggesting we ignore the chain of command?" Bucky asked. It seemed counterproductive. Perhaps even harmful.

"Do you know who runs this army, Barnes?"

"Err… General Marshall?" he hazarded.

"No. How about you, Wells? You know who runs this army?"

"Umm… right now, I'm thinking you do?"

"That's right. Me, and you. There's two types of people who run this army. There's the administrators who organise it, and the sergeants who make everything happen. A good officer knows that his job is to give an order then get lost somewhere quiet and wait for us to get the job done. A good officer knows not to interfere with how his sergeants do their job. Dancing is not a good officer. The higher up the chain of command you go, the harder it is to find someone who can tell his ass from his elbow. And because the chain of command is infested with idiots who failed basic human anatomy, the 107th has two Second Lieutenants but no Captain to keep them in check. There's an empty position there, and Dancing wants to fill it. He wants to brown-nose his way to the top, and he'll get us all killed just to change that gold bar on his uniform for a bit of silver. I don't know about you boys, but I'm not getting killed by some snot-nosed brat younger than my own damn son, who thinks he knows anything about war because he went to college then spent three months having his nails manicured in some boy-scout officer training school.

"You gotta obey Dancing because he's got a piece of paper telling him how smart he is and that his farts smell of fuckin' roses, but you don't have to go running like some kept woman. Your job, in this war, is to make that guy's life a hell. To make him look bad and incompetent. You obey his orders as slowly as you can get away with. You interpret them _freely_ unless he's real specific. You play the dumb idiot because he believes that's what you are, and because sooner or later he'll either realise that he doesn't fuck with sergeants, or the brass will wise up to the fact that he's a complete and utter imbecile and they'll boot him out to somewhere he can't do any real harm. Boy-scouts, maybe."

"Umm… you said there were two lieutenants?" Bucky prompted, when Weiss' angry tirade had finally ended. Just what the hell had Dancing—err, Danzig—done to the guy, to piss him off so much?

"Yeah. Lieutenant Nestor is the other. Don't worry, he's a spineless jellyfish. I put the fear of God into him on the first day and now he's so scared of screwing up that he stutters when he gives orders. But at least he's not idiot enough to try to force drills and laps onto us. You probably won't even see him unless he's conveying an order; guy's afraid of his own goddamn shadow. I wish the brass would just promote him to First Lieutenant so that Dancing would finally stop trying to impress the colonel with his rose-smelling farts, but the truth is neither of them have enough time in to earn a promotion, and what time they do have has been the eight months we've been stuck in this hell hole. Dancing's just itching for combat so he can prove himself by getting us all killed."

"Do you ever get to go into London?" Wells asked, nimbly changing the subject.

"London?" Weiss let out a long, loud belly-laugh. At one point he was even doubled over, holding his aching stomach. "Is that where you think you are? Look around you, Wells. Does this _look_ like the pride of England?"

Bucky joined his friend in looking around. The dawn had revealed more of the landscape, and it could best be described as 'bleak.' It was all open, empty hills and things he suspected might be moors, the type of which he'd read about in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's ' _The Hound Of The Baskervilles_.' The predominant colour, much like the U.S. Army uniforms, was _drab_ , with subtle undertones of _brown_ and elusive slivers of _green_.

"Where the hell are we, then?" Wells asked at last.

"Plymouth. The ass-end of nowhere. Some of the younger men like to get passes to go down there when they can, but it's hardly what I'd call a hub of excitement. There's always too many sailors, for a start, and they tend to snag the best girls early. At least, that's what I hear. Got no interest in girls myself; the wife would kill me if I came back with the clap. That sort of thing's alright for you young fellas, but you know what I see every time I look at those young women?"

Bucky shook his head, and Weiss ploughed aggressively on.

"I see my goddamn daughter. And if I caught someone my age foolin' around with someone her age, I would bury him six feet under. What about your men? What're they like?"

"They're a good bunch," Bucky said, before Wells could mouth-off something like _'well, they have two arms and two legs,'_ and get himself into trouble. "Hard-working when they have to be, and they look out for each other well enough."

"Any trouble-makers?"

"Just Wells here," Bucky said. His friend scowled and jabbed his elbow into Bucky's ribs.

"Hmph," Weiss grunted. "That's good. I got a couple of trouble-makers. Guess they're your trouble-makers now, too. Don't worry, I'll point them out to you. You gotta sit on the trouble-makers. No passes to town. Most guys you can trust off the leash, but one or two just can't help themselves, so you make sure you know where they are at all times, especially when there's civilians close by. Once we get shipped out to the front lines it won't matter too much, 'cos not getting their asses shelled will keep them out of trouble. Devil makes work for idle thumbs."

"Do you think we'll be shipped out soon?" Wells asked.

Weiss nodded grimly. "Any day now. Hope we can ditch Dancing before then, otherwise we're all going back in coffins. Anyway, you boys go have your shower, and remember what I said; Dancing might make you drop and give him twenty if you drag your feet over his orders, but that's nothing compared to what I'll drop on you if I see you licking his boots like dogs. Clear?"

"Crystal," Bucky assured him. He and Wells hurried away, following in the direction their fellow soldiers had disappeared, stopping first to grab a clean change of clothes from their barracks. Bucky waited until Weiss was out of sight and earshot before speaking. "What do you think we should do?"

"First, I think we should shower. Then have breakfast. Then I think we should find out how hard it is to get one of those passes for the town."

"What do you think we should do about _Danzig_?" Bucky sighed.

"Oh, that?" Wells gave a dismissive wave, as if it was of no consequence. Bucky had already imagined himself and the rest of the 107th caught in the middle of a civil war between Weiss and Danzig, and it was a war that had ended with the slaughter of the nice, quiet guys he'd grown friendly with during the voyage from Last Stop. "I think we should listen to Sergeant Weiss and do everything he says, because that guy is a hell of a lot scarier than our _lieutenant_. And think about it; Weiss has already survived one war against the Germans before Danzig was even born. Who're _you_ gonna listen to?"

"When you put it like that…" Very occasionally, Wells was prone to making good points. They were like sparkling diamonds amongst the bullshit. "Anyway, why do you wanna go to town? Weiss said it's boring."

"He's also old, and clearly out of touch with the very concept of fun. Besides, it's gotta be more exciting than the camp. We can't sit around forever waiting for excitement to happen; we have to make excitement happen for ourselves! Sure, it may not be London, but it's England. It's still full of English dames."

"Yeah but you heard what Weiss said, the town's full of sailors, and you know nothing spreads diseases like sailors."

"We'll draw the line at dancing," Wells said.

Inside the shower block, they stripped out of their horrible, sweaty clothes and made for the nearest free showers. Most of the 107th had already passed through and were probably sitting down for breakfast right now. Hopefully it wasn't grits. "You can't get the clap just from dancing," Wells added, as warm water plastered his black hair to his head.

Bucky quickly washed his own hair, then pushed it back out of his face. "I dunno…" It still didn't sound particularly appealing. When he'd had the image of London in his head, with its exciting city-pulse, its dance halls, its old-worldey culture and its classy, metropolitan dames, he'd been keen to get out and explore regardless of the blitzed state of the city. Now, surrounded by bleak, open moorland and dull countryside, staying in the barracks and playing poker sounded more appealing. Davies could probably find a way to get them some hooch.

"C'mon, pal, I need you to be my wingman. Who else am I gonna take? Carrot's terrified of alcohol, Gusty gets so nervous he'll clear any bar we enter, Tipper's a damn kid, Hawkins is still down over his brother… guess I could take Franklin or Biggs, but you and me are gonna get prettier dames than me and Franklin. You know how shallow broads are sometimes, and Franklin's not exactly Prince Charming."

"Yeah, it's the _broads_ who're shallow," Bucky scoffed. Then, he sighed. He was gonna regret this. He knew it right away. But maybe being in Plymouth would be better than being between Weiss and Danzig. "Alright, fine. But you owe me one."

"We'll have a great time," Wells grinned. "I promise."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

As luck would have it, they didn't get to go to Plymouth that evening because Danzig claimed they'd done so poorly at morning drill that they'd do it again after dinner, until every man could march so perfectly in formation that not even the most particular of generals could find fault. After that he'd inspected their barracks and had not been impressed by the coating of dust on the floor, nor how some of the men had stored their helmets _upside down_ beneath the beds. He'd claimed it was sloppy leadership and lectured Bucky and Wells for fifteen minutes about the importance of discipline. Bucky didn't see that it mattered how a guy stored his helmet, as long as he worked efficiently and got his job done, but he suspected if he tried to bring Danzig around to his way of thinking, he'd only earn himself push-ups.

After the chewing-out, Danzig had instructed them both to sweep out the barrack, _'as an example to the men about how it should be done.'_ He'd come back twenty minutes later dissatisfied with the sweeping and ordered them to do it again. Finally, on the third time, he couldn't find fault—at least, he couldn't find fault beyond the way one of the bare light-bulbs flickered from the ceiling, but how the hell that was _their_ fault, Bucky had no idea.

"Thank God he's gone," Wells said, gripping the handle of his sweeping brush so tight that his knuckles were white. He shot death-glares at the door through which Danzig had left. "I was seconds away from shoving this where the sun don't shine."

Bucky was too tired to try to cheer up his friend. He put his own sweeping brush aside and sank down wearily onto his bed, whilst all around the rest of the 107th who'd been on the _Monty_ tried their best to be silent and unobtrusive. None of them wanted to be the recipient of a brush handle, and though Wells almost never shouted in anger, he'd been known to make good on vindictive threats.

Two hours of sleep. He'd done a full day's work on two hours of sleep and now his tired eyes demanded he lie down and close them. It was only nine o'clock, but already several of the 107th were bunking down for the night. Gusty—whom they'd made sleep by the door again—was snoring gently only moments after Danzig left, while Tipper looked like his head was about to wobble right off his neck.

"I suggest you all get some sleep," Bucky told them. "We're gonna be up for drill again at oh-five-hundred."

His words were met by a chorus of groans and much punching of pillows. Lieutenant Danzig was certainly making no friends amongst the newly arrived members of the 107th.


	11. Mae in Plymouth

We Were Soldiers

 _11\. Mae in Plymouth_

The next day, after drill practice, and laps, and more laps, and then a shower and a half decent breakfast of oatmeal and toast, Bucky saw Lieutenant Nestor for the first time. Probably no older than Danzig, the guy looked a little like Gusty, in that he wore spectacles and had a sort of nervous twitchiness about him, but he wasn't quite as gangly as Gusty. Still, he dry-washed his hands as he approached Bucky and Wells as they were chivvying 'their' half of the regiment back to the barracks, to try and keep them out of Dancing's way.

"Erm, Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Wells," the man said, and almost flinched when Bucky and his friend threw up salutes. "I'm Lieutenant Nestor. How are the, erm, men settling in?"

"Very well, sir," Bucky said, and then lied through his teeth. "They're all eager to get started." Officers liked that sort of thing.

"Good, good. That's good." To Lieutenant Nestor, it sounded anything but good. He cleared his throat before continuing. "You're to visit the quartermaster and see that the men are fully kitted out with everything they'll need for a campaign. Rifle ammo and ration kits and whatnot. The quartermaster has the full equipment list. Erm, and it should be done sooner, rather than later, if you don't mind."

"Are we shipping out?" Wells asked. Bucky didn't have to be a mind-reader to know his friend was imagining those Plymouth dames slipping out of his grip.

"Oh, I don't know about that." Nestor pulled off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt sleeve before donning them again. "I mean, sure, I guess we must be. But when? Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe it'll be another eight months."

"Does Lieutenant Danzig know when we're shipping out?" Bucky asked him, after sharing a look of disbelief with Wells.

A light frown played across Nestor's face, his eyes becoming unfocused, speculative. "I should think not. To tell you the truth, all plans made here need to be checked with Churchill. I mean, he doesn't check them himself, probably has a general to do that, but we can't go running off half-cocked. Spirit of cooperation at all that." The frown appeared again. "To hear the English down in Plymouth talk, it's their war, and they think they're letting us join it. Guess I can't blame them, really, they've been on their own since France surrendered, and I know the Soviets are in it now but from what I hear they're struggling just to keep the Nazis out of Russia."

"Speaking of Plymouth," Wells jumped in when Nestor took a breath, "some of the men were hoping to get passes. They've been cooped up in a tin tub for two weeks. You know how that is."

"Certainly. Why, on the ship that brought me over, we had fifteen hundred guys cramped together in tiny bunks—"

"We had hammocks."

"Oh, my condolences. How many passes do you need?"

"How many can we get?" Wells asked. Bucky could see from the look in his eyes that his friend was already figuring out how many he could exchange in barter.

"I think ten is the maximum per regiment per night. We don't want to flood Plymouth with soldiers, do we?"

"Ten would be fine," Wells assured him coolly.

"Yes. I think ten would be fine," Nestor nodded, as if it was all his own idea. Bucky couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy; he was clearly out of his depth here, despite whatever officer training he'd had. And Wells had a particular flair for exploiting the unwary. "I'll tell the staff sergeant of the camp that he's got permission to authorise ten passes for you to collect once you're finished with the quartermaster. Is that okay?"

"Yes sir, that would be great, thank you sir."

Bucky rolled his eyes as his friend buttered up Nestor. "Sir," he chimed in, "do you have any suggestions about exciting places to visit in Plymouth?"

"Gosh, no! I've only been there once myself. Very dangerous place, Plymouth. And the locals speak with such dire country accents that it takes a practised ear to understand a word they say. I went there with a few of the officers, when we first arrived—wouldn't do to be seen fraternising with the enlisted men, of course—and it took three tries to order a beer. When it came, it was flat, and when I tried to complain, the man looked at me like I was mad."

"Err, how dangerous is 'dangerous', sir?"

Nestor glanced around, looking sweaty and nervous, and gestured them both in closer. Bucky wasn't sure he wanted to get closer to Nestor, but he needed to know how clear a head he had to keep when Wells finally dragged him to the city.

"We were out in this bar—they call them pubs, here—and had just got our drinks of flat beer—they call it ale, apparently—when three… erm… soldiers… came in, bold as anything. And they were from one of the, erm, coloured battalions. And they went up to the bar and ordered some drinks, and we kept expecting the barman to refuse to serve them or direct them towards one of the coloured bars. But it turns out there _are_ no coloured bars in England."

"You don't say!" Wells gasped in theatrical horror. Bucky fought back his grin. This was gonna be Carrot all over again.

Nestor nodded emphatically. "I know. So, these three soldiers, they sat down and were drinking their warm beer—I mean, ale—happy as Larry. And we thought, well, that's strange. Nobody else in the bar—the pub—was even looking at 'em twice. But there were these soldiers there from one of the cavalry regiments, somewhere out of Louisiana, and they took real exception to those soldiers sitting at a table in a pub full of white men and women. Especially since the women were giving 'em the eye. And you know what those southern types are like, they got up and started swaggering and told the black fellas to get the hell out and… well, it doesn't bear repeating. And you know, if we'd been back home, I reckon those guys would've left and that would have been that. They looked like they were about to leave, y'know, just to avoid the mess those southern boys were trying to make.

"But then, the barman turned to the cavalry fellas and he said—at least, I _think_ he said, because he had such a terribly broad accent, but on reflection, I think I've translated it close enough—he said, _'You chaps might not realise this, but you're not in America anymore, and we'll take your guns, your fighter-planes and your tanks with thanks, but you can keep your attitudes to yourselves.'_ And then one of the southern boys, he said if the barkeep was gonna let Ni—I mean, Negroes—drink there like they had the right to sit with good, honest, hard-working white men, then they'd take their dollars and go spend them elsewhere. And then the barman, I think he said, _'Boys, this pub's been in my family for four generations. Nobody comes into my pub and tells me what I can't serve and who I can't serve it to; not some 'arse-faced' Nazi son of a whore, not some overpaid Sammies, and sir, if the King Himself walked in here and asked me to stop serving someone just because he didn't like the look of him, I'd ask his Highness to politely wait outside while my patrons finished however many drinks they liked.'_

"And I thought, well, this is it, this is where things turn nasty, because I could see those cavalry fellas about to start something, and I had visions of them getting dragged off by MPs for beatin' on three coloured guys and the man who'd served them. But about six locals stood up, huge guys, some fishing crew apparently, forearms the size of tree trunks, and they just gave the cavalry fellas the evil eye. And those southern boys might be two planks short of a boat, but they weren't suicidal, and they finally left grumbling all the while about… well, I won't repeat their language."

"I see what you mean about danger," Wells nodded sagely. "It sounds like the very moral fibre of the civilised world is at stake. Coloured guys drinking warm beer. What will they think of next?"

"I prefer not to think about the possibilities. Anyway, I've chewed your ear for long enough. Just be careful if you go down to Plymouth, Sergeants. And you'd do well to warn your men about the… peculiarities… of the English. Helps to avoid any misunderstandings."

They watched Nestor leave; his walk was twitchy, and his head constantly swivelled from side to side, as if expecting hordes of rampaging Negroes to descend on him at any moment.

"This is very serious," Wells said, and for once there was no humour in his eyes. Bucky lifted one eyebrow, and his friend elaborated. "We already gotta compete with locals and sailors, and now we learn English women don't mind giving the eye—and probably a lot of other things—to coloured guys. Life is cruel and unfair. We should be in London, having a great time of it."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Do you think of nothing else?" Steve had often accused him of being dame-crazy, but Wells managed to outdo him by quite a wide margin.

"Sure. I think of getting shot at by Nazis, but I find thoughts of my impending demise don't agree with me. C'mon Barnes, don't bring that big grey raincloud along for the ride. You heard what Weiss said; we're gonna be deployed to the front any day now, and Dancing will try his best to get us all killed. And Lieutenant Hand-Wringing obviously thinks we're being sent soon, or he wouldn't have ordered us to go see the quartermaster. This could be one of our last nights of freedom. Let's live a little before we die a lot."

"What'll you do if there are no dames left?"

Wells shrugged. "Rile up the hill-billies. For now, let's go see the quartermaster. Then we can find the staff sergeant and figure out which of our fair comrades are most deserving of a night on the town."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

By three o'clock that afternoon, every member of the 107th was kitted out for war. Weiss had stuck around for long enough to yell at a few heel-dragging privates, then departed for what he claimed was his usual afternoon nap, leaving Corporals Jones and Scott to keep an eye on the seventy-five members of the regiment who'd been months in England already.

After they'd finished overseeing the kitting-out, Bucky had gone with Wells to find the staff sergeant, who'd issued them ten passes. Between them, they decided that Gusty and Biggs should take Hawkins for a night out on the town, to try and cheer him up and get him thinking about something other than Drew. Davies got a pass because he would come back with vital trade goods and intel. The other four passes were put into a draw, and assigned to four of the men at random. None of them, Bucky was relieved to note, were troublemakers.

At dinner time in the mess, they sat with Weiss and told him of their plans to visit Plymouth that evening. He merely grunted and said, "Don't come back with the clap. They won't discharge you for that."

By seven o'clock, Bucky and the others were dressed in their slightly creased dress-uniforms. Dancing had tried to inflict more drill on them, but they told him Nestor had already said they could go to Plymouth, which had left the guy looking like he was chewing rocks because he knew he didn't have the authority to rescind Nestor's permission, and going above Nestor's head to the brass would've made him look like a petulant child. He finally stomped away, and Bucky suspected they'd have to pay for it with extra drill in the morning.

Before they set off for the town, Wells imparted some last minute wisdom to the troops who had passes.

"Don't get completely sauced," he warned them. "Because anyone who comes back and spews in here is gonna get real familiar with the pointy end of the broom. Don't say anything insulting about the beer; the English think it's supposed to be flat, and they might get pissy if you tell them how bad it is. And don't make a scene if you see the local folks serving coloured guys, or dames dancing with them or anything; that's the norm here, too."

"Hope I don't see any pretty dames dancing with Jews," Gusty glowered. Wells rounded on him immediately.

"You got a problem with Jews, Gusty?"

"Err, no—"

"My old grandmother, God rest her soul, was Jewish. You know who else doesn't like Jews, Corporal?"

"But—"

"Exactly. Hitler doesn't like Jews. Now, you keep mouthing off about Jews, and that's gonna start sounding like sympathy. And people are gonna think Corporal Ferguson might have some _sympathies_ for the Third Reich. Maybe wonder if Corporal Ferguson is perhaps fighting on the right side."

"I don't have a problem with Jews, Sarge!" Gusty assured him. He eyed the broom and started to sweat. "Honest!"

"Hmph. Well. Good. Now, listen up you guys. Me and Barnes, we're going into town to have fun tonight, because trying to keep you guys on the straight and narrow is a damn full-time job. Isn't that right, Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky nodded, and Wells continued.

"So, here's how it's gonna work. If you see us in a pub, you aren't to acknowledge us in any way, shape or form. No saying hello, no waving, you don't even approach us, because you're gonna cramp our style. If we're talking to dames, you do not look at the dames. At all. If we walk into a pub you're drinking in, you finish your drink and then go find another pub. Understood?"

"Yes, Sarge," they all intoned obediently.

"Good. Now, we're gonna head into town. You're to wait ten minutes before following, so that we arrive separately, and that's the way it'll stay all night. C'mon Barnes, Plymouth beckons."

They left the camp, Wells with a spring in his step, Bucky with a heaviness in his heart over leaving the 107th to the mercy of Danzig. But at least Weiss would be there to keep an eye on them. Bucky had heard a story that, not long after arriving at the camp, Danzig had ordered Weiss to prepare for drill, so Weiss had gone and fetched him an actual dentist's drill from the camp's medical barrack. Weiss was a hero to the enlisted men.

"Your grandmother wasn't really Jewish, was she?" he asked, as they set off on the road to the city.

Wells shook his head. "Irish. Catholic as the Pope. Maybe even _more_ Catholic than the Pope. Did you see the look on Gusty's face, though? Priceless."

"You're a bad man."

"Not the first time I've heard that," Wells grinned. "But before we get to Plymouth, let's talk strategy."

Bucky felt both eyebrows rise of their own volition. "Strategy?"

"Yeah. What's your preference? Blondes? Brunettes? Redheads? If pickings are slim, we need to figure things out so that we both find a dame we can be happy dancing with. Personally, I know blondes are supposed to be more fun, but I find brunettes and redheads put in more effort and don't make you do all the hard work. Like, blondes know they got that card to play and rest on their laurels a little too much. Know what I mean?"

"Sure." He racked his mind for something to say. In his eyes, he could picture exactly the kind of dame he liked, but he'd never before had to qualify his ideal dame's appearance to someone else. High-school locker room talk had mostly been restricted to exchanging stories about which girls were fun to go out with, which girls didn't mind you stealing a kiss at the end of the night, and which might set their older brothers on you if you even tried it. Teenage boys were far less discerning than grown men, and some had simply employed an 'anything with legs' policy. There had been no locker-room talk, after high-school had ended, and trying to get Steve to talk dames was like trying to get blood out of a stone.

"I guess," he said at last, as the image of his ideal date solidified in his mind, becoming so tangible he could almost touch it, "I don't have any preference for hair colour, as long as a dame is confident about her looks, even if she's not an outstanding looker. Y'know, the type who doesn't fret over every curl on her head being perfect."

"So we're looking for an eager brunette or redhead for me, and a confident anything for you." Wells nodded to himself. "I think this is doable."

A scene played out in Bucky's mind, of young women in the girls' locker-room, sitting around gossipping about which guys were fun to go out with, which were worth letting kiss them at the end of the night, and which they should set their older brothers on if he even tried.

"Y'think dames talk to each other about us like we talk about them?" he asked his friend.

"Without a doubt." Wells plucked a long stem of grass from the side of the road and twirled it around his fingers. "Here's a paradox for you. At the same time, dames are _exactly like us_ , and _nothing like us_. What do you think about that?"

"I think you're full of shit."

Wells managed a convincing hurt look. "Think about it for a moment. Dames like all the sorts of things that we do. Some of them even like working, and we've seen for a fact that they can do most of the jobs we can, like building ships and operating machines and farming and running businesses. Could you imagine what would happen if all women worked in the same jobs alongside men, at least until they were married?"

The image of Lieutenant Nestor nervously on the lookout for working women flitted across his mind. "Total anarchy?"

"Pft, no." Wells used the grass stem to swat at a fly that was bothering him. It finally gave up and buzzed away. "The economy would double. Think about it; we already have one of the greatest economies in the world. How much greater would it be with twice the manpower—no pun intended—and twice the spending power? Twice the productivity. And you could maybe increase it by another fifth if blacks, and black women, could do the same jobs as white men."

The image of Lieutenant Nestor twitching was replaced by the image of Wells gettin' shot by some cavalry soldier outta Louisiana for his _'dangerous and radical un-American ideas.'_

"You practising for riling up those hill-billies?" he asked.

"I guess sometimes I can't help but see things as an accountant. People are time, and time is money. More money is never a bad thing."

It seemed, to Bucky, a very dull way of looking at things. Kinda like the countryside they found themselves walking through now. The sun was slowly on its way to the horizon's kiss, the birds were still calling, the air was warm without being hot, but the pleasant tone of the evening was marred by the drab and brown and yellow of the barren hills and moors around them. Though he was a city-boy born and bred, he'd been to the country a few times… yet no country he'd been to in America had been as desolate and forlorn as _this_. Maybe that was why so many settlers had left England for the Americas. Maybe the dull, emptiness of the countryside had driven them to it.

"Kinda bleak around here," he said, as the waning sun washed over the hills in a blood-red tide.

"I like it," Wells said, his eyes scanning the land around them. "I think it's got a sort of haunting beauty to it. You can see why England produced so many great poets. What?!" he asked in a defensive tone, when Bucky shot him an incredulous look.

"You _like_ this place?"

"You've never been to Wyoming, have you?"

"No. And you _have_?"

Wells shrugged. "I got an uncle with a ranch out there. And this place kinda reminds me of it. In fall and winter, when all the grassy plains turn to gold and brown, and stretch on for as far as the eye can see… it looks empty, but when you take a closer look, you find life everywhere. I think this place is like that."

"Is that where you learnt how to sleep in a hammock without falling out on your ass?"

"It's surprising how much you can learn in the middle of nowhere." Wells tossed his grass stem aside, along with his newfound romanticism for the countryside. "Anyway, how come you don't have a girl back home?"

The question he'd been dreading since Last Stop. The question he didn't have an answer for, and he was surprised it had taken somebody so long to ask it. Over the past couple of years, his mom had been nagging at him to settle down. Kept reminding him how old he was getting. That the older he got, the harder time he'd have finding a nice girl to marry. The older he got, the more people would wonder why he wasn't already settled with a family. He supposed his mom didn't mean anything by it, she was just doing what mothers did. His folks had married young, because of the Great War. Most of his parents' generation had married young, because that was what people did. They left school and they got married to their sweethearts. Back then, a girl liked to be settled before twenty.

Now, times were changing. Opportunity, the Depression, and another war, had shaken the status quo. Girls were still looking to marry early, but not _quite_ as early. If a young woman remained single into her twenties, it wasn't frowned upon. Nobody looked at her askance, like she might be damaged goods. Many young women were taking jobs; waitressing, singing, providing secretarial skills, nursing… more and more women were looking to 'make something of themselves' before making a family, and because the social norms for women had relaxed a little, the norms for men had relaxed even further. Now, a bachelor at twenty-five didn't get so many suspicious glances. It was just assumed that a young man was looking to gain a little experience and some freedom before choosing a woman to settle down with. But that didn't stop the previous generations from trying their best to play matchmaker.

He'd taken girls home plenty of times. Some of them, his mom had even liked. But he'd never found _the one_. The girl who could walk into a room and take his breath away. The girl who plagued his thoughts night and day and made him want to stop chasing all the others. Maybe he had things backwards. Maybe he ought to settle down with a girl and slowly learn to love her, rather than love her before settling down. But he suspected he'd been terribly spoilt by his parents. His mom and dad had been in love before they'd married, and though their lives had been picture-perfect for the most part, they hadn't always done things traditionally.

His mom had worked as a secretary since she was seventeen, at first doing part-time work for her father, then moving full-time to a bigger company when she'd left high school. And, scandalously, she'd kept working part-time whilst her children had been in school, revelling in her independence and the income contributions she brought to the family home. She'd envisioned a future in which women could work _around_ their husbands and their children, instead of becoming servile to them. And that had suited Mr. Barnes just fine, because it gave him the freedom he wanted to run his own boxing club after he got out of the army, and if the club didn't make quite so much money one month, he didn't have to sweat it because his wife's job made up the difference. And in the months when the boxing club did _very well_ , they had money to save or spend as they saw fit, so that even during the Depression, when times were lean, they had never been all that lean for the Barnes family.

Bucky had experienced an unexpected relief, when he'd signed up for the Army. His mom had been so worried about him coming back home that she'd abandoned all attempts to introduce him to all the nice young girls she thought would make him a lovely wife. She still expected him to settle down after he _got back_ , of course, but there was no telling when that would be.

"I dunno," he said at last, recalling his friend's question. "I guess… well… I like it when things are new. When you take a dame out and you don't know what she's gonna do, or say. When you spend time getting to know each other, when just about anything is possible." Like at Christmas when he'd been a kid, and he'd enjoyed sitting there with a present in his hands, full of eager anticipation about what it might be. It was a feeling he liked to prolong, letting the excitement and the suspense build. Once a present was open, no matter how _nice_ the present, that thrill of _potential_ was gone. You could never put the wrapping back on. "But then after a few weeks, or months, things start to become familiar, and nothing feels new, and there's this expectation of doing things together, and settling down… I guess I feel like all the mystery is gone. That probably sounds stupid."

"Not at all." Wells gave him an easy smile. "We all chase our own white rabbits. Some guys, like Carrot, I think are cursed to live easy, comfortable lives. Imagine the boredom which constant happiness would bring."

"Maybe." Carrot certainly didn't seem to think he was cursed. "What about you? And don't give me that crap you gave Franklin on the _Monty_."

"Why do you automatically assume everything I say is bullshit? It was the actual, honest to Betsy reason why I don't have a girl waiting for me. The world's too big to be tied down to one city, to one street, one house, one dame. I don't mind sticking around and having fun with one girl, but the moment she starts talking about settling down, that's it, I'm out."

"Sounds like a lonely way to live."

Wells shrugged. "I get by."

They reached Plymouth before the sun had fully set, and from the road above, got a better look at it than they had the morning before. They called it a city, but it was nothing like New York, or any of the other great American cities he'd seen. To Bucky's eyes, it looked a chaotic mess. The streets were not arranged in neat grids, so it was impossible to see where one block ended and another began. In fact, he suspected there were no 'blocks' at all. No sky scrapers rose above the skyline, and the glare of neon lights was conspicuously absent. Cars were few and far between, and the streetcars he saw moved at a sedate pace, winding their way through the sinuous streets. It seemed a very lazy town.

Wells whistled quietly, and pointed at something in the near distance. Bucky let his eyes adjust to the non-uniformity of the roads and buildings, and spotted what his friend was pointing at. Large portions of the city centre lay in ruin, as if some child had come along with his toy bulldozer and knocked down all the card-houses. Not far into the town was a tall, metallic structure with several speakers arranged atop in a fan position.

"I think that's an air-raid siren," said Wells. "When they spot enemy planes approach, the siren is activated and everybody knows to hide."

"I feel sorry for the people who hid there," Bucky said, nodding at the rubble.

They entered the city proper, and tried not to let the destruction put a damper on the mood… but it was hard to ignore the mounds of charred rubble. Together with the dreary landscape, they made Bucky wish he was somewhere else. _Anywhere_ else. London. Or back in New York. He was certain nothing could wreak this sort of destruction on his home city. New York was too big. An immortal concrete behemoth. New York could have endured the _Luftwaffe_ and their bombs.

As they walked, they discussed where to go. Bucky suggested the docks, which seemed to be the most active area of the city, but Wells was put off by the thought of sailors. For a while they simply walked, looking at the ships in the harbour, the buildings, the piles of rubble. When they finally drifted away from the dockside area of the city, they found themselves in a nice little town square. Everything was in darkness, because of the blackout—after seeing the piles of rubble which had once been shops, homes and civic buildings, Bucky finally understood the need for blackout—but they heard music from behind one of the doors, a sign above it naming it _The Whalebone Inn._

"Sounds promising," Wells said, his ear pressed against the door. "Should we go in?"

"Might as well," Bucky shrugged. Otherwise this would have been a wasted trip.

The inn seemed a merry place; an old piano was played by an even older man, a regal tune to which a few couples were dancing. Here there were soldiers from the nearby camp, their shoulder sleeve insignia—SSIs, as they were known—unfamiliar to Bucky. A few locals glanced up when the pair entered, but none of them were dames.

At the bar, they waited for the barman to finish serving a group of GIs, then warily ordered a glass of beer each. The barman eyed up their uniforms, but didn't make a move to get their drinks.

"You chaps seen Mrs. Hubbard yet?" the barman asked at last.

Bucky shook his head. _Mrs. Hubbard?_ Was that a person? A ship? A theatre show?

"No," said Wells. "Do we need to?"

The man nodded. His accent wasn't a dire as Nestor had made out. "Can't serve you until you've seen Mrs. Hubbard."

"Where can we find Mrs. Hubbard, then?"

"In the _Feisty Firkin_. That's a pub," the man explained. "Go left onto the main street, take your first right onto Challenge Way, left onto Victory Parade, head down past the _Lucky Lady_ and follow the road around the bend to the _Firkin_."

One of the nearby locals called out. "You can't get onto Victory Parade, Dick; bobbies closed it off this afternoon on account of that sinkhole. You chaps should go right, back towards the docks, then take the right fork above the old church, follow the road over the tops to the barber's shop and then turn sharp left, and that'll take you to the _Firkin_ alright."

Bucky looked at Wells, who looked back with the same confused expression.

"Do we really need to do all that?" Bucky asked the barman. "We've only come for a drink."

"Can't serve you until you've seen Mrs. Hubbard."

"Is there anywhere that _will_ serve us if we haven't seen Mrs. Hubbard?"

"Sure," the barman nodded. "Go back to the docks and look for _The Salty Seamen._ "

"We are _not_ drinking in a pub called 'The Salty Seamen,'" Wells scowled at Bucky. "C'mon, Barnes, let's go find Mrs. Hubbard."

"Did you get any of those instructions?" Bucky asked his friend, as they left the pub.

"Some. At least, I know which direction we need to be heading in."

Conscious that their precious hours were ticking away, they hurried along the route they'd been given, eyes peeled for trouble. There was none. Lieutenant Nestor's assessment of the danger seemed to be even more bullshit than one of Wells' diatribes.

It took them a few tries, they got turned around several times, hit a few dead ends, but they finally reached the _Feisty Firkin_. Like all the other buildings in town, it was blacked out, but music spilled out from within, a jaunty two-step tune played on what sounded like a fiddle. Bucky followed Wells inside, and was met with a familiar scene. Locals and servicemen drinking apart, whilst barmaids collected empty glasses and the man behind the bar pulled pints. The man looked up as they approached.

"We're looking for Mrs. Hubbard," said Wells.

"Through there." The man nodded at an open doorway into another room.

"Thanks."

The back room was the source of the music; a fiddler, accompanied by a couple of percussionists, one playing the tambourine and another the harmonica, some sort of folksy song. It was mostly locals back here, worn-looking men doing their best to get their beers down fast, probably because they tasted flat and warm. At the far side of the room, next to an unlit fireplace, was a matronly woman, her face lined around the edges, her hair a deep shade of battleship-grey. She stood up when she saw them enter, and swept towards them, her blue gown billowing around her legs. It was a fairly demure dress, but even the high neckline couldn't hide the impressive bosom which preceded its owner's steps. The woman could've given Mae West a run for her money.

"You must be James Barnes and Daniel Wells," she said, holding a hand out to each of them. "I'm Mrs. Anne Hubbard."

Thoughts about decorum whirled through Bucky's head. How had she known who they were? Why did she seem to be expecting them? What should he do with her hand? He might playfully kiss a pretty young girl's hand, but that sort of thing wasn't right for someone who was older than his mother. In the end, he went for a handshake, and was relieved Wells did the same.

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am," Bucky offered.

Wells echoed his sentiment, then asked, "How did you know our names?"

Mrs. Hubbard gave him a congenial smile. "A delightful young Pfc. named Davies was along a short time ago, and he said to expect you. Hmm, let me see." She stood back and tapped her chin in thought as she studied them. "Sergeant Wells," she said, to Danny, "and you must be Sergeant Barnes," she added for Bucky.

"Lucky guess?" Bucky asked.

"Not at all. Private Davies gave me a rough description. He said Sergeant Wells was _'one of those pretty-boy types the girls love so much,'_ so it was mostly a matter of observation."

"What? I'm not…!—gonna kill Davies…!—teach him a thing or two…!—latrine duty for the next _week_ …!—" Wells spluttered with a glower on his face.

"Don't be harsh with Private Davies, Mr. Wells. There are worse fates in this world than to have a pretty face. Now, you boys must come and join me for a drink. Catherine, be a dear and grab two ales and a G&T, won't you?" she called to one of the serving girls.

Bucky followed Mrs. Hubbard back to her table, because despite the tone of invitation, he didn't think her offer was an _invitation_ , per se. Wells followed, still muttering under his breath, but his grumbling objections were rendered less effective by the fact that, as far as guys went, he actually was kinda pretty. Had his features been a little less fine, he probably would have been classed as 'handsome' instead.

They made small talk while they waited for their drinks. Mrs. Hubbard asked them how their voyage had been, and Bucky replied honestly that the food had been dreadful, the conditions cramped, and most of them had been violently ill at least once during the journey. Wells sat sulking until his beer arrived. Then, after tasting it, he sulked some more.

"So," Mrs. Hubbard said, stirring her tonic into her gin with a long cocktail spoon. "What are you boys looking for tonight?"

The question roused Wells, who seemed to remember their purpose for coming to Plymouth in the first place. "Just some good, clean fun, ma'am," he said earnestly.

Mrs. Hubbard gave a loud snort through her nose and took a sip of her G&T. Bucky wondered if Davies had told her about Wells' nickname.

"How old do you boys think I am?" she asked.

Bucky floundered like a fish outta water. He knew the rules. _Never ask a dame her age if she looks like she_ _'s over twenty-five._ Especially when the dame was a _lady_. And he suspected very much that Mrs. Hubbard was a _lady_.

"Forty-five?" he offered at last, trying to sound at least _partially_ honest.

"Forty- _three_ ," Wells said smugly.

"Oh, good. So I don't look like I was born yesterday, then?" she sad dryly. "I've outlived two husbands—" Bucky couldn't help but wonder how they'd died, "—and raised six children. Four of them strapping lads, and two delicate little flowers who could choke the life out of my strapping lads. I spent fifteen years as a teacher, and twenty as a school headmistress, before the Nazis turned my schoolhouse into rubble, so don't bring your stories of 'good, clean fun' to me and expect me to swallow them hook, line and sinker."

"No, honestly," Wells insisted. "We just wanna go dancing with a couple of pretty dames."

"Dancing," Mrs. Hubbard echoed, in a tone that was as dry as the G&T she was drinking. She shook her head. "You know what the public opinion is, about you Sammies?" They both shook their heads, and Mrs. Hubbard educated them. " _Overpaid, Oversexed, and Over Here_. Despite what you might think about your food on the voyage, you GIs are better fed and paid than our lads, and I've heard stories from all over the country about your comrades getting into all sorts of trouble."

Bucky recalled Sergeant Weiss' words, about sitting on the trouble-makers. Clearly, not all sergeants followed that policy. Then again, most of the sergeants hadn't been in a war before. Only the veterans like Weiss knew what it was really like, both on the front lines and away from them.

"Even here, in quiet little Plymouth," Mrs. Hubbard continued. "I'd walk down a street and see soldiers groping with young women in doorways, and I dread to think what goes on _behind_ those doors."

"Is that why the barman of the _Whalebone Inn_ wouldn't serve us?" Bucky asked.

"Clever boy," the woman beamed at him.

"We heard there was some trouble here. Something to do with some soldiers from a cavalry unit, and one of the coloured regiments."

Mrs. Hubbard tutted and sipped her drink. "Dreadful business, that. I saw it with my own eyes. Imagine, treating your fellow soldiers with such disrespect! After that, I decided something had to be done. The mayor and the other officials are so busy trying to keep the city afloat, so to speak, and it was plainly obvious that your camp's leadership didn't care much for their soldiers' behaviour. So, I got together with some of the local business owners and we agreed that to avoid further scenes, and to try to shelter the virtuous young women from being lead astray, we'd implement a system of vetting soldiers visiting the town. Not everyone agreed with the policy, and some of the pubs along the docks remain rife with debauchery, but all of the good, reputable establishments saw the wisdom in only accepting patrons deemed to be trustworthy."

 _I bet they did_ , Bucky thought, eyeing up Mrs. Hubbard. He suspected she was a force to be reckoned with. Probably worse than a hurricane, when she set her mind to something.

"Have you had any trouble since then?" he asked.

"Very little. Mostly just boys mouthing off, as they're wont to do. Every so often, a couple of the lads from that cavalry unit will come along and proselytise about how the coloured boys will ruin the morals of the city if they're allowed to walk around where they please, but really, they are amongst the nicest young men I have ever met, and so very polite to the girls. They've been nothing but respectful and well-behaved."

Bucky nodded, and for the first time in his life, wondered how strange and backwards American attitudes must seem at times to others. In the neighbourhood where he'd grown up, the faces had been predominantly white, and _de facto_ segregation kept almost all of the black kids away from white schools. His father accepted coloured young men in his boxing club—as long as they could learn how to fight, of course—so Bucky was used to seeing and interacting with the coloured guys on a regular basis, but he wasn't oblivious to the negative criticism his father got for accepting black fighters. His father claimed skin-colour didn't matter one bit, and he even played Dixieland on the gramophone every Christmas because he liked it a lot better than the same-old repetitive carols. But Bucky hadn't realised his father's attitude was shared by millions of people elsewhere in the world. Maybe that was something he'd brought home from the Great War, too.

"You must know all the best places to drink, and dance, and have a good time," Wells prompted the woman.

"That's right, I do," she agreed. "But I haven't yet decided whether I like you enough to let you drink, and dance, and have a good time in Plymouth."

"Mrs. Hubbard," Bucky said, turning his best sincere gaze on her; the one that never failed to get him his way with his mother, "I have two sisters back home. Mary-Ann's a couple of years younger than me, and Janet's just turned sixteen, and they both mean the world to me. I promise, if you give us a chance, and let us have a drink, and go dancing, I'll treat any young women we come across with the same respect that I would show my sisters."

"I only have brothers," Wells said, "but I promise I'll also treat any young women with the same respect that I'd show to Barnes' sisters." He thought about it for a couple of seconds. " _More_ respect, in fact."

"I suppose you both _seem_ sincere enough," Mrs. Hubbard sighed. Her hand delved into her purse, and came out with two small tiger cowrie shells, into which had been carved the letter H. "Keep these tokens with you; any reputable establishment will let you inside if you show them. Don't give them away, don't trade them, don't lose them, and don't betray my trust, because I can assure you boys, Hell hath no fury like me. I taught all the young men and women in these parts, and they all know to come to me if anybody gives them hassle. Understand?"

"Perfectly," Bucky assured her.

"Hmph. Well. Don't let me keep you. I know you boys don't want to waste your free time drinking with a dotty old bird like me. If you're going back to the _Whalebone_ , Emily and Clara might be up for dancing. They can show you around."

"Thank you," he said, prodding Wells out of his chair before his friend could ask whether either of them were redheads. "And good evening, ma'am."

They left their drinks half-finished and departed the _Firkin_. They'd lost nearly an hour, but now they had magical shells to guide their way.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: A couple of interesting facts that were a part of this chapter's research — 1) 'Overpaid, Oversexed and Over Here' was a phrase used of American soldiers by Aussies, as well as Brits. If you're interested in learning about real life incidents, you could start with the_ _Battle of Brisbane_ _. It_ _'s a sad example of how even allies in war can end up fighting each other due to inequalities (both real and perceived) between military personnel, and cultural differences._

 _2) Coloured troops were segregated in the U.S. Armed Forces during WW2. They were not allowed to serve in units with white troops, and black officers were not allowed to command white soldiers. A lot of people in England (especially rural areas) had never seen black people until the segregated coloured GIs were stationed there. When hostilities broke out between racist U.S. servicemen and coloured U.S. servicemen, locals usually sided with the coloured servicemen. Again, there are many interesting (and sad) examples out there if you want to read around the subject of segregation in the armed forces during this period, but you could start with the_ _Battle of Bamber Bridge_ _in England, and the_ _Battle of Manners Street_ _, for a similar situation in New Zealand which occurred when racist troops stationed there objected to the presence of Maori soldiers using the same facilities._


	12. Coffee and the Angel

We Were Soldiers

 _12\. Coffee and the Angel_

"One… two… three…"

Bucky groaned as Carrot's voice tore through the veil of sleep that had been doing an admirable job of keeping his mind from a pounding hangover. He opened his eyes to the dim light of early dawn, and saw the top of Carrot's ginger head appear at three-second intervals as he began his morning push-up routine.

"Jeez, Carrot, you gotta do that at this hour?" he croaked. God, his mouth was dry. Probably should'a had a drink of water before he'd gone to bed, but he and Wells hadn't got back to the camp until two o'clock in the morning, and he hadn't been thinking about water at the time.

"Quarter to five, Sarge," Carrot said, when he appeared from the floor on his next 'up' push. "Drill in fifteen minutes."

Around the room, the rest of the 107th were starting to wake. Bucky turned to his other side and saw Wells still fast asleep, sprawled prone on his bed with his face turned away from the light of the windows, his blanket a tangled mess on top of him. Wells could sleep through anything, and they'd had such an eventful night that he suspected his friend wouldn't even wake at Carrot's push-up count.

They'd found Emily and Clara in the _Whalebone_ , and convinced the girls—with the aid of Mrs. Hubbard's tokens—to show them some of the sights of Plymouth. Emily had taken a liking to Wells, much to his dismay; she was blonde. Clara was a brunette who said she liked Bucky's smile and wouldn't switch partners, which had been good for Bucky because Clara was one of those confident dames he liked, and she was more interesting than Emily.

When they discovered the _Whalebone_ had a dart board, they played a few games to get the evening started, then at the girls' suggestion they went to the local Masonic hall, which had opened its doors to visiting soldiers and even had a live band playing music to dance to. The dances weren't all the same as back home, so they'd shown the girls how to Lindy Hop, spent an hour or so dancing to the music, and then left for greener pastures when the band announced it was closing time at the hall.

The closest pub had been _The Fox and Hound_ , and they'd had several drinks there. After four or five pints, the ale had become tolerable, and when the girls suggested they try G&T instead, they switched for one drink. It tasted worse than the ale. In fact, it tasted like Christmas trees. So Bucky and Wells had gone back to the ale, and the girls had stuck with their gin. There had been lots of talking, much of it nonsensical because they'd all had rather a lot to drink by that point. Just after midnight, the pub began to close. They offered to walk the girls home, but the girls had simply laughed and said they only lived a minute's walk away. Clara had suggested that she might not mind if Bucky gave her a goodnight kiss, so he did, and made her promise not to tell Mrs. Hubbard. She'd giggled at that. When Emily made a similar suggestion to Wells, he merely kissed her hand and grinned at her disappointed pout.

Out on the edge of the city, they'd tried to figure out how to get back to the camp whilst completely sauced, and finally selected what they hoped was the correct road out of town. Thanks to the damned _Luftwaffe_ , none of the street lights were in use, so they had to stumble along the road in almost complete darkness.

"You should'a kissed Emily," Bucky had said to his friend, as they left the town and hit the countryside. "She was dis'pointed you didn't."

"Don't you know anything about dames?" Wells had chuckled. "Always leave 'em wanting more. It makes 'em think everything after that is their own idea. Tomorrow night she'll remember the dashing and handsome soldier who was also a gentleman—unlike his friend, who was only too happy to take advantage of a young lady who'd clearly had too much to drink—and she'll try a little harder to impress."

"Remember a pretty-boy who wouldn't kiss her, y'mean," Bucky snorted. Then he laughed at his own joke, because there was nobody else to laugh at it for him.

"You're lucky I'm not a violent man, Barnes, or I might've taken a swing at you f'r that."

"I don't believe you're capable of taking a swing at anything right now." Both of their footsteps were erratic. Lieutenant Dancing would not have been pleased. _Walk to town and back three times until you learn how to walk correctly._ Bucky snickered at Dancing's imaginary admonishment.

"I do believe you're right," Wells agreed. Then he'd stumbled into a deep ditch which ran along the side of the road, and banged his head on something harder than it. Pain and potential concussion had added to his alcohol-induced confusion, and Bucky had had to half-carry him back to the barracks. It was too late to go to the hospital ward, so he'd put Wells into his bed, made sure he was lying face-down in case alcohol or concussion made him sick, then fallen into his own bed and managed a solid two and a half hours of sleep.

Now, lying on the flimsy camp bed, listening to Carrot reach _thirty_ , he knew he needed to get up and prepare for drill. That, or he had to send someone to go and murder Dancing. But who could he trust with such a murder? Wells was out cold, and nobody else was brave or stupid enough to murder an officer. Except maybe Davies. Pfc. Davies had hated authority from the moment he'd signed up, and possibly even before it. He was one of the few men who never called Bucky and Wells 'Sarge', unless Wells was blackmailing him for something. Blackmail actually afforded some grudging respect from Davies.

 _No, that_ _'s a stupid idea. You can't ask Davies to murder Dancing. Where would you hide the body, for a start?_

Resigned to drill, he licked his lips, which did nothing for his parched throat, and croaked out, "Wells. Hey, Wells." Wells didn't move, but Bucky could tell he wasn't dead because the blanket was moving with the rise and fall of his chest. "Wells!" he hissed. " _DANNY!_ "

His friend finally stirred and rolled over to regard him with through bloodshot eyes. The gash on his head was longer than Bucky had realised, and though it had stopped bleeding overnight, it still looked nasty.

"How's your head?" he asked.

"…not in Kansas anymore," Wells mumbled blearily.

"Oh good, you're fine then. Get your ass outta bed, we have drill in a few minutes."

"You're not the boss of me."

"No, but Dancing thinks he is, and if you're not there for drill he'll chew you up and then spit you out."

"Jerk," he grumbled, though Bucky wasn't entirely sure who his friend was referring to. Wells pushed back his blanket, rolled out of bed, and promptly hit the floor when his legs failed to support him. He lay dazed where he'd fallen, as if he didn't quite understand what had just happened. "Ouch."

"Are you okay?" Bucky asked, as he and Gusty hauled Wells back onto his bed. There was a sort of glazed, unfocused look to his eyes.

"I think he needs to go to the hospital," said Gusty, laying the back of his fingers against Wells' forehead. "He looks kinda pale and feels kinda clammy."

"Stop feelin' me, dammit." Wells batted ineffectively at Gusty's hand.

"Want me to take him to the hospital, Sarge?"

"No, I'll take him," Bucky sighed. _Somebody_ had to explain to the medics what had happened last night. "You get the troops ready for drill, and tell Sergeant Weiss where we've gone. I'll be back as soon as I've dropped him off. C'mon Wells, sit up so I can help you to your feet."

"Where're we going?"

"To the hospital."

"Don't wanna."

"Did I say hospital? I meant… uh… we're off to see the Wizard."

"Oh. Okay."

Bucky hooked one of Wells' arms around his shoulders and hauled his friend to his feet. Through some act of providence, Wells managed to stay upright this time. Then, just after they left their barrack, God revoked that providence and sent them directly into the path of Dancing.

"Lieutenant Danc—" _shit_ "—zig, sir," Bucky said, not even trying for a salute. If he let go of Wells, he'd fall over again. He could feel how precarious his friend's sense of balance was by the way he wobbled uneasily, like a spinning top running out of energy.

"I hope you're not trying to skip drill today, Sergeants," said Dancing.

"No sir. I'm just gonna take Sergeant Wells to the hospital for a checkup. He banged his head last night, you see."

Dancing eyed them both up. "I'm sure Sergeant Wells is perfectly capable of taking himself to the hospital."

"He keeps falling over, sir."

"Then it'll take him a little longer to get there, won't it?"

Bucky had never wanted to punch somebody in the mouth as much as he wanted to punch Dancing right then. He'd been willing to give the guy the benefit of the doubt even after Weiss' warnings, even after the previous day's drill practise, and laps, and chewing out over the barracks floor that had been dusty for months before the 107th had got there. But he saw, right then, what Weiss had tried to tell them; Danzig was in it for himself. He didn't care about the men serving under him. They were stepping stones. A way for him to advance his own career. Dancing was even worse than all those bullies who'd picked on Steve over the years, because at least the bullies had shown something more than callous indifference to the suffering they'd caused.

But he couldn't punch Dancing. If he did, he'd get the rap for hitting an officer no matter how big a jerk the guy was. And more than that, both his hands were currently occupied with keeping Wells upright. _Gotta be smarter than that,_ he told himself. _Beat the little brown-noser at his own game._

"Yes sir," Bucky agreed, in the most chipper voice he could muster. "But see, if he falls and bangs his head again and goes unconscious, he might die. And a sergeant dying at base will look awful bad on the records of our officers. Not sure what the punishment for death through negligence is these days, but it sure makes me glad I'm not an officer. Sir."

"Fine," Dancing sighed, his promotion slipping through his grasp in his mind's eye. "But don't take all day."

"No sir."

Bucky walked on before Dancing could change his mind. Beside him, Wells roused a little. The exchange hadn't been lost on him.

"I wish I felt ill enough to be sick, then I could'a vomited on that guy's boots," Wells complained.

"They say revenge is best served cold."

"I think it's best served vomit-flavoured. Maybe he's right though. I'm sure I can find my way to the hospital on my own. Don't wanna get you in trouble."

"You're not. You're getting _yourself_ in trouble. I'm just along for the ride." He grinned to himself. "Besides, I _did_ tell Weiss you were a trouble-maker, didn't I?"

Wells gave a brief laugh which cut off abruptly with a groan of pain. "Don't make me laugh. Hurts my head."

"That's what you get for having such a big head."

"Hah—ow. Fuck you, Barnes."

At the hospital tent, he delivered Wells into the tender care of the nurses, who promptly hauled him onto a medical bed and began prodding and poking him everywhere except his head. Bucky loitered nearby, waiting for someone to tell him his friend wasn't gonna die.

"What happened?" one of the nurses asked.

"He fell and hit his head last night."

"Hmm." She shone a flashlight into Wells' eyes, then nodded to herself. "Light concussion. He'll be on his feet again by tomorrow."

Another of the nurses fetched a large needle and some tubing. Because of the way he lay on the bed, Wells couldn't see the needle, but Bucky could. "Erm, what's that for?" he asked, hoping to sound casual. Not even the needles used to administer shots back in Camp Shanks had been that thick.

"We have to take blood _before_ putting painkillers into him," the nurse explained.

"What do you need to take his blood for?"

"We always need blood."

"But he's dehydrated!"

"Then we'll rehydrate him afterwards." She turned her gaze to Bucky, and he suddenly wished he was anywhere else. This was probably the look that a deer met, right before it fell to the jaws of a mountain lion. "When was the last time _you_ gave blood, Sergeant?"

"Um…"

"If you have to think about it, it's been long enough. Take off your shirt and lie down on one of the beds."

"But I have drill practise!" he objected.

"Now you have blood donation."

Objecting was futile, because another two nurses came along and practically wrestled him out of his shirt. Lucky it wasn't a cold day, because his cotton vest afforded hardly any warmth. A nurse took a look at his tags, recording his name and blood type on a medical sheet, then pulled another needle and tube from somewhere.

"Y'know," Bucky said, as she fastened a strap tight around his bicep, "you might not get any actual _blood_ out of me. It might be more ale."

"Every little helps. Now, make a fist. You'll just feel a tiny scrape as I put this into your vein."

The 'tiny scrape' nearly made him jump off the bed. Why was it so hard to find nurses who were sympathetic, and didn't try to inflict pain on you? He knew the profession couldn't attract _all_ the cruel women, because Steve's mom—Sarah—had been a nurse, and she'd been one of the kindest, gentlest women the world had ever seen. Bucky had lost count of the times he and Steve had gone to see her for grazed elbows and knees, and once, a collarbone injury Bucky had got because he'd tried to ride his older cousin's bike down a home-made ramp and gone hurtling out of control into a wooden fence. She'd patched him up and not said a word about it to his folks, saving him from being grounded for life. Why weren't the Sarah Rogers of the world here, in this camp?

"Now, just lie there and slowly open and close your fist," said the nurse, after she'd taped the needle to his arm. "And don't try to move, or you'll pull this out."

"Yes ma'am," he sighed, and she disappeared to the other side of the tent, where an army of nurses was busy with paperwork.

He glanced over to the bed opposite him. Wells didn't look any better—especially with the large needle stickin' out of his arm—but at least he didn't look any worse. At least his fall hadn't given him brain damage. Who the hell put such large ditches by the side of the road anyway?!

"Look on the bright side," Wells said, when he saw Bucky watching him. "At least we got here early enough to get the best seats in the house."

Bucky managed a chuckle, which hurt his dry throat. "I wonder what they're showing today. Cartoons, I hope."

"Sorry, pal." Wells sighed and looked down at the needle in his arm. "I didn't mean to get you stuck here giving blood."

"I'm thinking of it as insurance. Maybe one day they'll need to put this blood back in me."

"We'll have you calculating personal interest rates in no time."

"God, I hope not. Don't you know? Accountants are boring."

"Heh." He managed to get a smile outta Wells, but it did nothing to dispel the dark circles beneath his eyes. "Seriously though, thanks for having my back with Dancing."

Bucky shrugged. "You would'a done the same for me, if our positions were switched. Right?"

"Yeah. I would."

"Then think nothing of it," Bucky told him.

Ten minutes later, the nurse returned to take the needles out of their arms. Bucky sat up as she took his blood away, then immediately regretted it. The world spun around him, the rest of the hospital swirling like a kaleidoscope toy, and he felt his vision darken at the edges. At the same time, his body broke out into a cold sweat. He quickly lay back down and closed his eyes to stop the swirling, taking a few deep breaths to try and steady his racing heart.

"You look how I feel," he heard Wells say, but his voice was all distorted, like it came from very far away. "Hey, nurse, I think my friend's about to pass out."

Footsteps approached, and Bucky felt a hand placed on his forehead, a thumb lifting one eyelid, then the other. He groaned. The nurse had hands like ice and a face like a bulldog with a toothache.

"You sat up too fast," she accused.

"You took my blood too fast," he countered.

"You'll be fine. Just lie there for a while. One of the juniors will be along in a few minutes with a drink and a bite to eat for you both. You're not allowed to leave until you've been rehydrated."

So Bucky lay there, suddenly glad that he'd been made to give blood, because by the time he got back to the barracks the drill would be over, and if he could stretch out the rehydration process, maybe get rehydrated two or three times, he might even miss doing laps. Perhaps he'd even see about giving more blood tomorrow, too. Feeling faint and dizzy wasn't exactly nice, but it was better than feeling sweaty and exhausted.

"Good morning, Sergeants!" a cheerful voice chirped. "How are we feeling today?"

Bucky looked up into the face of an angel. Eyes that might once have been sapphires in some rich monarch's crown looked down at him from beneath a neatly pinned wave of hair the exact colour of wheatfield gold. The face was finished off by small, perfect, rosebud lips that just begged to be kissed. Not a single freckle marred her flawless, sun-touched skin.

"Time to sit up now," she said, helping Bucky up, propping a pillow—which she fluffed up first—behind his back. "I've brought you a drink of water, and a nice cup of coffee, and some real cookies, not like those you get in the ration kits."

He'd died. He'd died and gone to heaven. That was the only explanation. He wasn't in the hospital barrack anymore, he was in a heavenly facsimile in which all the nurses were replaced by beautiful angels who fluffed up pillows and brought coffee and cookies. He watched as she took a second tray of refreshments over to Wells' bed, then checked both their charts and gave them a beautiful smile.

"Oh, you're both very brave and generous. It's so hard to find soldiers who'll voluntarily donate blood. Most of them have to be dragged into it!" She put the charts back and stopped beside Bucky's bed, to check the temperature of his skin with the back of her hand. "Your chart said you took a funny turn after donating. How do you feel now?"

"Err… I still feel a little dizzy," he said. He didn't feel dizzy at all, but she might stick around if she thought he might faint again.

"I banged my head," Wells called. Bucky suspected the infatuated look on his friend's face was a mirror of his own.

"Oh dear!" the nurse tittered. "Don't worry, I'll take a look once you've finished your drink and your cookie."

"I had to carry him for three miles when he banged his head," Bucky told her, with a glare for Wells.

"I just burnt my tongue on my coffee," Wells added, his cup in his hands.

"I think I have a splinter in my finger," said Bucky, holding up one of his fingers at random.

"I've got a speck of dust in my eye," said Wells.

 _Dammit_. He should have thought of that one first. The nurse merely let out a quiet giggle.

"Oh, don't worry, I know how terribly hard Lieutenant Danzig works you through those drills and laps. I promise we won't release you until they've finished. You don't need to make up reasons to stick around. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish wrapping bandages. Don't drink your coffee too fast." She disappeared with a wink, and Bucky immediately shot a scowl at his friend.

"Wells, you bastard, you don't even _like_ blondes."

"I like that one," he scowled back. "Besides, it's not that I don't like them, per se, it's just that they're not my first preference."

"Yeah, well, you've got Rita."

"Rita isn't here. Besides, you got to dance with the best girl last night."

"Today's a new day, pal."

"We'll see about that."

"Yes we will." He glared at his friend over his cup of coffee. Nurse Angel was far too nice for Wells. If his friend wouldn't back down, there was only one thing for it. This meant war.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Despite what Dancing may have thought about them, the enlisted men of the 107th were not idiots. When they realised giving blood meant no exercise for twelve hours after, and meant getting an additional cup of coffee and a cookie on top of their usual meals, a third of them went to give blood after dinner that evening. Bucky and Wells had been discharged from the hospital earlier in the day and ordered to 'take bedrest' because of their dehydration, so they'd spent the afternoon tossing a baseball to each other across the barrack, each silently plotting how to win the affection of the unnamed nurse before the other could make his move.

With a third of the regiment missing, and two sergeants under medical instruction to not move from their beds, Dancing had given up on trying to force the men to do drill and laps that evening. The following morning, another third of the regiment went to donate blood, leaving Dancing positively furious about the men's newfound spirit of generosity. There was nothing he could do about it, though. He couldn't stop the troops from volunteering to donate blood, especially since it was usually so damn hard to get enlisted men to volunteer for _anything_ ; all he could do was fume, and wait until everyone in the regiment had donated blood before inflicting further punishment on them.

Because nobody knew exactly when the 107th were shipping out, everyone in the whole camp knew it would be real soon. Gusty's stomach disagreed with the idea of leaving the safety of England, and he was banned from entering the barracks during the daylight hours. Even at night, when he was asleep, his stomach complained so badly that those with the beds closest to him had taken to sleeping with their gas masks on.

Carrot wrote twice-daily letters to Samantha, and seemed to live in terror that each letter might be his last. Nobody knew where the 107th would be sent, and the general consensus was Africa. All Carrot knew about Africa was that it was filled with savages, and Carrot's mom would have had a fit if she knew her son was being sent to such a savage land. Not for the first time, Bucky wondered how much of Carrot's letters made it through the army's redaction censors intact. It was common knowledge that particularly scrupulous censors could wipe out almost every part of even the most innocent letter. Was ' _Dear Samamtha_ _… Love, Kenneth'_ the only thing poor Samantha got to read each time her fiancé wrote her? The evening after being discharged from the hospital, Bucky took a leaf outta Carrot's book, and wrote letters home. Just in case.

The following day, Sergeant Murphy invited Bucky and Wells over to the 101st's barracks for a last friendly toss of darts. The Screaming Eagles had a temporary home on the opposite side of the camp, so it was the first time they'd truly seen Murphy since arriving in England. The Eagles hadn't been sent to the quartermaster, to be kitted out for war, which meant they'd probably be staying behind. The dartboard had survived the Atlantic crossing just fine, and now the three sergeants took turns throwing, none of them truly keeping score as they caught up on events from the past two days.

"And you say she's pretty?" Murphy asked, as Wells took his turn to throw darts. They'd told him about their heavenly experience in the hospital barracks.

"Prettiest dame I ever saw," Bucky nodded. "I could tell she liked me most."

"Bullshit," Wells grumbled. "She was just feelin' sorry for you because you fainted."

"I didn't faint, I blacked out," Bucky told Murphy. "Apparently it happens when you sit up too fast after having a pint of blood bled out of you."

"Hmm." Murphy stroked his moustache. "Perhaps I'll go and give blood, once you've shipped out. Don't worry boys, that nurse will be safe with me. What's her name?"

"Dunno. Wells scared her off before we got chance to ask her."

"She was offended by you staring at her like a lovesick schoolboy, Barnes," said Wells. Then, to Murphy, "I've been calling her 'Coffee-Nurse' in my head. She makes really good coffee. Even better than Franklin's coffee."

"I call her 'Nurse Angel,' because she looks like one," Bucky informed him.

Murphy opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by a chorus of mocking jeers, and a loud diatribe filled with language even Sergeant Weiss—who was largely considered to be the king of cussing and was greatly admired by Wells because of it—would not have touched.

"The hell's that?" asked Wells.

Murphy rolled his eyes and gave a long-suffering sigh. "The Eagles have the misfortune of having the barracks between the 370th Infantry and the 35th Cavalry."

"So?" Bucky prompted.

"So, the 370th is part of the 92nd Infantry Division, and they're all coloured soldiers. The 35th Cavalry take exception to coloured guys being on the same planet as them. Just ignore 'em, this happens a few times a day, they'll be gone in a few minutes."

"Ignore them?" Wells grinned. "Murphy, where's your sense of fun? C'mon."

There was nothing Bucky could do to stop his friend. Wells had that wicked gleam in his eyes, the one that preceded other people gettin' the sharp side of his wit. He'd been trying real hard to go easy on the 107th, and clearly felt everyone else was fair game. Bucky followed behind Wells and Murphy, and wondered what new trouble he was gonna have to pull his friend out of.

A short way behind the Eagles' barracks, they found two privates of the 35th Cavalry giving abuse to two privates from the 370th Infantry. Bucky wasn't opposed to soldiers mouthing off at each other—as long as they didn't take it too far—and the name-calling and friendly bickering was just another part of army life. Most soldiers didn't take it personal. Even Carrot was developing a thicker skin. But this wasn't a fair fight; no coloured soldier could give back-talk to a white soldier without some officer coming down on him like a ton of bricks.

As they reached the four privates, the two from the Cavalry promptly fell silent while they checked out the newcomers' sleeves for any sign of an officer's stripes. When they saw none, the look of deference slid from their faces.

"Somethin' we can do for yew, Sergeants?" one of them drawled in a thick country accent that Bucky couldn't have placed even if he wanted to.

"No, don't mind us, we're just testing a theory, Privates," Wells said. He squinted at the soldiers' sleeves, looking for ranks, and found none. "You _are_ privates, right?"

"That's right. Why?"

Wells turns to Murphy and clapped him on the shoulder. "You owe me two bucks, Murphy." He grinned his explanation at the two soldiers. "Sergeant Murphy here told me the 35th Cavalry didn't _have_ any privates. I bet him two dollars that it did. Looks like I was right. A pair of privates, right here in front of our faces."

"Maybe yew wanna step into our barracks and say that ag'in," one of the men scowled.

"Ew, no thanks, I'm not into that sort of thing. I'll leave that to you and your brother here." Wells affected a confused expression. "Though, I'm surprised they let you guys serve together; I didn't think they let close family members serve in the same unit."

"What yew talkin' about? We're not brothers."

"Oh, sorry. Cousins, then? You've got that sort of genetic familiarity, a little family resemblance, right around here," said Wells, gesturing to his eyes and nose. "S'pose they've gotta let cousins serve in the same unit, otherwise the whole of Louisiana would have to sit the war out, right?"

"Now yew listen here," one of the men scowled, stepping forward with his hands curled into fists.

Wells gave a nervous laugh and backed up, his hands out in front of him. "Haha, c'mon fellas, I'm just having a laugh. You know how it is; pick the lowest common denominator and throw a bit of banter around. Tell you what, to show I'm not being serious, and that I really don't bear you any hard feelings—or hard anything, just to clarify that right here and now—why don't you take this?" He unfastened one of the buttons of his jacket and pulled out a foil-covered bar. "My last chocolate bar. Kept hold of this all the way from Last Stop. I was gonna eat it myself tonight, but in the spirit of goodwill and cooperation, I want you guys to have it. Just don't go telling your cou—err, fellow privates; that's the last I have, and I don't want anyone thinking I'm playing favourites."

The privates looked as confused as Bucky felt. He hadn't known Wells had a chocolate bar from Last Stop, and it was most unlike Wells to _give_ something away. Real chocolate, like smokes and hooch, was a valuable trade commodity.

"Go on now," Wells encouraged with a shoo'ing motion. "No need to stick around and make me feel bad by rubbing it in my face."

The privates shared a glance, then furtively left. Bucky stood with Murphy, watching them go. The two privates from the Infantry regiment wore very perplexed expressions on their brown faces.

"Err," one of them spoke up at last. "I wish you hadn't gotten involved, um, Sergeant. They'll only come back later and be twice as bad."

"Oh, I sincerely doubt that, Private." Wells turned to Bucky with a nefarious smile on his lips. "I had Davies 'redistribute' that bar for me from the hospital barrack, when he went to donate blood this morning. Figured it might be useful for Dancing. Keep our _dear_ lieutenant otherwise occupied for a few hours."

Realisation dawned. "You mean…"

Wells nodded happily. "Those boys are off gorging themselves on laxative-laced chocolate. Methinks the 35th Cavalry barrack is gonna smell even worse than Gusty tonight."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Later that afternoon, after they'd finished beatin' Murphy at darts, Bucky and Wells called a truce over the angelic nurse, and agreed that since they'd be shipping out soon anyway, she wasn't really worth fighting over. Besides, there was always Emily and Clara.

Instead, they turned their attention to methods of halting Dancing's reign of tyranny. Wells favoured harsh methods which inflicted mild pain or discomfort and maximum humiliation on Dancing, while Bucky—whose objection to humiliating the guy had evaporated over Dancing's lack of concern for an injured comrade—preferred a more passive method of disobedience.

"I say we have a few of the guys fake a faint during the next laps," he said, as they walked through the camp back to their own barracks. "Have them admitted to the hospital and claim Dancing's been pushing the men past exhaustion. Maybe the brass will put a stop to it."

"You heard what Weiss said about the brass; can't tell their asses from their elbows. Hell, they probably approve of what he's doing. Think it instills discipline in us, or whatever. Besides, where's your sense of fun? I can get Davies to get us another laxative bar."

"And how are you gonna get him to eat it? He might be an idiot, but he's not some redneck private who's gonna fall for you being generous. He actually _knows_ your reputation; he won't fall for it. And even if he _did_ fall for it, you'd get into trouble."

"So I'll give it to Carrot or Tipper and have one of them give it to him. Dancing will just think they're trying to get into his good books. They don't even have to know what's in the chocolate."

"You can't do that." Bucky put his foot down. "You'd get Carrot or Tipper in trouble instead of you, and that's not fair on them."

"Oh, fine," Wells sighed. "Then I'll figure out some other way." He threw up his hands in exasperation. "Sergeant Barnes; peoples' champion."

Bucky shook his head. Wells just didn't understand. It was fine for _them_ to get into trouble for poisoning Dancing with laxatives, but it wasn't fine to get _the men_ into trouble for it. The privates and corporals had no authority to fall back on, and incriminating any of them would only have made Dancing ten times worse.

In the late afternoon, before dinner, Dancing called for the 107th to form up. Weiss obeyed slowly, taking his time over rounding up the troops, and Bucky and Wells followed suit. He'd been expecting another surprise drill, but when Lieutenant Nestor appeared beside Dancing, Bucky's eyes widened in surprise. Nestor _never_ came for drill or laps, and Bucky couldn't even recall seeing him with Dancing before.

"Men," said Dancing, when the regiment was in formation. "It is my happy responsibility to inform you that tomorrow morning we will be deployed to the front lines." He paused, waiting for a cheer that didn't come. Clearing his throat, he continued. "At oh-three-hundred we will march to Plymouth and board a vessel which will take us to our destination. I want each and every man here packed and ready to leave at oh-three-hundred exactly." His chest puffed up with self-inflated pride as he continued. "I can't tell you where we're going, but I can tell you this; our role in this war will be very important. Pivotal. Through our actions, the war will be won or lost. And I can assure you, it won't be lost. It is both a great burden, and a great responsibility, but I know that together, we shall triumph!"

Dancing's speech was met with even less enthusiasm than the news of being deployed. Might've had something to do with the fact that Dancing had never once shown any predilection for 'togetherness.' As far as Dancing was concerned, 'togetherness' meant him giving the orders, and the men jumping to obey.

The men saluted Dancing's departure, and Bucky hurried over to Lieutenant Nestor before the guy could slink back into the shadows.

"Sir, do you know where we're being deployed?"

"Rumour has it Africa's a very real possibility," said Nestor.

"You don't know?"

"Nobody knows, except Colonel Hawkswell. He'll be the commanding officer on our mission."

"Do you know what our mission _is_?"

"Gosh, certainly not." Nestor looked terrified by the very idea. "Only the colonel knows that. And Churchill, I should imagine, and maybe Patton and Montgomery. Anyway, I'll let you get back to seeing to the men, Sergeant. Everybody has to be ready to leave."

"Sir," Bucky nodded.

 _War_. The thought hit him hard as he watched Nestor's twitchy retreat. So far, war had been an idea. A story. A piece of news. Something to anticipate and dread, to speak of in a hushed whisper or with hyperbolic bravado. Tomorrow, war would become real. Once he set foot on that boat, there was no getting off it until he reached his destination, wherever that might be. His ten year old self reached out through the years and planted a thought inside his head. _Boy, I sure wish Steve were here to give me some advice._

He swallowed the lump in his throat as the 107th scrambled around him, and for the first time, he truly _saw_ them. Over here was Carrot clapping Tipper on the shoulder, directing the kid back to the barracks where his gear was in disarray around his bed. Over there, Gusty was doing some last minute trade in Army Edition books, trying to lighten the load in his backpack. Biggs was hefting around duffels for his friends, carrying a load bigger than any other man in the regiment could. Franklin was already inside the barracks, sliding sugar sachets into the slits he'd made in the tongues of his boots, hiding places he could sew up again so nobody would know he carried an emergency sugar ration around with him. Davies had slunk off to do whatever it was he did that made everything run a little smoother when something was needed. Hawkins was staring up at the sky, his lips moving softly, no words coming out. Wells interrupted his observation to give him a commiserative pat on the back and, with a sad smile, said, "So much for Emily and Clara," before disappearing into the barracks.

They were a bunch of oddballs. Each and every one of them mad, in his own way. A motley assortment of young men and kids, untried by the rigours of combat, untested on the battlefield, and right now they were probably just as elated and terrified as Bucky himself, hiding their feelings in their own unique ways. But they were his family, and despite their oddness, their madness, their quirks and eccentricities… there was nobody he would rather be sent to the front lines with. In a little over three weeks, he had made friends that he knew he would remember for the rest of his life.


	13. Much Adieu About Nothing

We Were Soldiers

 _13\. Much Adieu About Nothing_

The battalion was small. The early hours of the morning found two regiments from the 27th Infantry Division—the 107th and the 69th—along with the coloured 370th Infantry Regiment, marching silently to Plymouth harbour. No fishing fleet awaited them this time, but a large ship berthed at the dock. Even from a distance, Bucky could tell it was bigger than the _Monty_ , and judging by the huge guns set into an inert position across the upper deck, it packed one hell of a punch, too.

"Big ship," Bucky observed quietly to the men closest by.

When they got closer to the dock itself, Wells pawed at his arm and whispered excitedly. "That's the HMS _King George V!_ One of the battleships that sank the _Bismarck!_ "

"That supposed to mean something?" His interest in the war had only been kindled after the attack on Pearl Harbour. Until then, he'd thought like many Americans had thought; the war was Europe's business, and better kept far away from American soil. Pearl Harbour had changed that, and at boot camp he'd been given the standard education about Kraut battles and tactics. But it was an army education, and it hadn't included much in the way of recent naval or aviation history.

"The _Bismarck_ was just about the biggest, baddest battleship made in the past five years," Wells explained. "It was supposed to put the fear of God into everything it came across, but after it sank the battlecruiser HMS _Hood,_ which the Limeys claimed was unsinkable, the Royal Navy got real pissed off and chased the _Bismarck_ all over the Atlantic with a dozen ships, and finally sank it a couple of years ago. My brother Tim would be real jealous if he knew I was travelling on the _King George V._ "

"I wonder if your brother Tim would appreciate the value of silence," Dancing sniped over his shoulder.

"Probably not; hyper-verbosity runs in the family. Sir."

The line shuffled forward in silence, each man weighed down with his own thoughts and his gear. The letters Bucky had written home were sitting in the base's postbox, ready to be sent back to his mom and dad, and to Mary-Ann in Baltimore, and to Steve. Or rather, ready to be put through censor. If he was lucky, his family and best friend would learn that he'd had a largely uneventful trip across the Atlantic—he'd purposely left out anything about his stormy, near-death experience, because that would only make Mom worry—and had arrived safely in England and was missing each and every one of them. If he wasn't so lucky, they'd learn that he'd been on a ship at some point, had arrived somewhere, and was missing something. Hopefully the guy assigned to censor Bucky's letter wouldn't be too harsh with it.

The inside of the _King George_ was a little like the inside of the _Monty_ , except cleaner, and larger, and it smelt better. Dancing had made sure the 107th were the regiment at the front of the line, and now he and Nestor followed one of the crewman along the dim corridors to the battleship's equivalent of the tween deck.

"Your men will have the entire troop quarters to themselves," the English crewman was saying. "You officers will be on the deck above; we have crew quarters ready."

"Will there be, um, deck time?" asked Nestor.

"No." The answer came out flat and hard. "This isn't a luxury liner like whatever ship brought you over from the States. This is a warship. The only places you and your men are allowed to be is in your quarters, in the mess or in the can. Everything about the ship is highly classified."

"Including our destination?" Dancing asked tersely.

The sailor smiled. " _Especially_ your destination."

In the troop quarters, they found a wonderful surprise waiting for them.

"Beds!" gasped Gusty, his eyes widening at the sight of rows of small bunks. "Real, actual, honest-to-God, completely not-hammock, beds!"

"Feels like Christmas, doesn't it?" Bucky grinned. Sure, the bunks were narrow, and didn't look long enough to hold a guy of Bucky's height, and the mattresses looked kinda thin and lumpy, but it sure beat having to try to climb into a hammock. At the far end of the long room, he dumped his gear and turned to Wells. "You want the top again?"

"I wouldn't dream of depriving you of that pleasure," his friend replied, capitulating the top bunk.

"Alright."

He stowed his belongings in the aisle and climbed the small series of ladders up to the bed. As he feared, the mattress was thin. And lumpy. And the bed wasn't _quite_ long enough, so he'd have to sleep with his knees bent. But hopefully, sleeping in a bed meant less sea-sickness if the weather turned stormy.

Since it was still early in the morning, and too early for breakfast, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift out of the troop quarters, away to the future, to the front lines. In his mind's eye, he saw the front line as something drawn in crushed white chalk, like the lines on a baseball field. Each time the front line was moved, a pair of soldiers came along, one to erase the last line, one to draw out a new one.

Just as he was sinking down into sleep, a sharp prod in his back woke him with a jump, and a scowl immediately crept down over his brows. He should'a known that Wells had some ulterior motive for letting Bucky take the top bunk. Closing his eyes, he tried to find his way back to sleep, but had no sooner relaxed when the prodding came again. And again, and again. Finally, he let out a vexed hiss and peered down over the edge of the bunk. Wells was poised ready to poke his mattress again.

"Gee, I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"Are you just going to be a complete jerk for the whole trip?"

"Yes. Yes I am. Revenge; best served cold, right?"

Wells was a true bastard. Luckily, Bucky knew how to deal with people like him. "If you prod me even one more time, I'm gonna switch bunks with Gusty."

"You wouldn't dare," Wells said, narrowing his eyes at him.

"Try me."

Slowly, Wells lowered his hand and scowled. "Fine. But I'm going to have my revenge, and by the time I do, it won't just be cold, it'll be _icy_."

Bucky ignored the threat. After a few days on the front lines, wherever those lines may be, his friend would forget all about revenge. "Where do you think we'll end up?"

"Hell. I think we'll end up in hell." Wells shrugged, as if it didn't particularly matter. "All I know is, wherever the _King George_ is going, we're not going with it."

"What makes you think that?"

"You heard what Dancing asked that crewman. And the crewman's response was that 'your' destination is classified. Not 'our' destination. So, I think we'll be dropped off somewhere along the way. That probably means somewhere in the Med, because the only other places to go from here would be over to Iceland or maybe around the Arctic Circle, but I'm pretty sure there's no Nazis up there. Besides, we haven't exactly been kitted out for Arctic warfare."

"Makes sense. Have you had any more thoughts about Dancing yet?"

"Haven't had time to think much about Dancing, what with dwelling on my potential impending doom. I told you about the survival rates for new infantry on the front lines, right?"

Bucky shook his head, his mind momentarily jumping back to the last time Wells had brought the subject up, back on the _Monty_. On his birthday. "You tried to, but I told you not to bother because I'm—"

"Living forever," Wells snorted humourlessly. "Right. I forgot. Well, heaven forbid reality stand in the way of your delusions of immortality."

Great. Wells was in one of his moods again. Bucky was too tired to try and get to the bottom of it right now, though. "Look, I'm gonna get a couple of hours' sleep before breakfast. Will you wake me if anything exciting happens?"

"Sure."

"Wake me _without_ prodding me, I mean," he amended.

"You spoil all my fun," Wells said, rolling his eyes and making Bucky glad he'd added the caveat.

He settled back down onto his mattress and rolled onto his side, so he could comfortably tuck his knees up to fit into the bed. When he realised thoughts of the front lines weren't conducive to sleep, he turned his thoughts to home. What were his family doing right now?

If it was four o'clock in the morning here, that meant it was eleven o'clock at night in New York. Mom and Dad were probably getting ready for bed, if they weren't already there. And what about Janet? She had a room to herself now… practically a whole house to herself. Did she miss her brothers and sister, or was she enjoying the freedom of being the only child regularly at home? Did she linger in front of the mirror in the bathroom because she knew there wasn't a queue of people waiting outside? Did she take her time making and eating her breakfast? Or, like Bucky thought he would, did she miss the bustle of a full house?

And what about Charlie? He'd talked about taking a summer road trip with his friends, before heading off to college. One last summer of freedom. Was he out on the road, driving from place to place, seeing new sights and meeting new people? Or had he changed his mind and decided to stay and spend time with his girlfriend? She wouldn't be in New York much longer, had secured a job working as a secretary in her father's company, out in Chicago. Would she and Charlie stay in touch, or would this be their last summer together?

Steve probably wasn't in bed yet, but then, he loved his work and often lost track of time when he was illustrating. Book covers, magazine advertisements, comics… what had started off as a childhood interest had turned into a full-blown passion, and Bucky was glad his friend had something to keep him busy. If work was busy enough, it might even keep Steve's thoughts from war. Might be enough to turn him away from his suicidal attempts to get enlisted.

 _Doubtful._ Steve's desire to become a soldier was just the next step in a long journey that had started when he'd been a kid, hearing his mom's stories of his dad. Steve's dad had died whilst serving his country during the Great War, and Steve had lived in the shadow of his father's sacrifice all his life. Once, when they'd been twenty-one and had gone out drinking heavily to celebrate Steve gettin' a job as a newspaper pencil artist, Steve had confided that he wanted to be the kinda man his dad could've been proud of. That was one of the reasons why he tried so hard to be a fighter, just like his dad had been. He didn't lack bravery, that was for sure, but Steve's strengths were not physical; they were mental. Emotional. They couldn't be measured on the track or the pool, nor in the boxing ring or the baseball field.

Down in Baltimore, Mary-Ann would probably be in bed already, if she wasn't working a late shift at the shipyard. He'd heard production at those yards didn't stop, that the women took it in turns to work eight-hour shifts so that they could keep making ships even when the rest of the country slept. Dozens of Liberty Ships were churned out each month, at a rate that no country in Europe could currently match; not even the British. How many ships had Mary-Ann helped to make? For how long would she have to work gruelling eight-hour shifts? And once the war was over—and there was never any doubt to Bucky's mind that when the war was over, his country would emerge victorious—would she just go back to being a teacher?

As sleep crept over his mind, he fell into a dream; one in which he and Wells and Carrot and Gusty and all the other members of the 107th went home after the war, and spent their days sat at small desks in a classroom where Mary-Ann taught them how to build ships.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Three hours and one odd dream of learning about riveting techniques later, Bucky stood yawning in the queue for the mess, and he wasn't the only one who looked like they needed a good night's sleep. He felt like he'd only just recovered from his night out in Plymouth, and wished he could've spent another few hours in bed.

A round of quiet snickers caught his attention, and he glanced to the group of men in front of him. They were a small bunch from the 69th Infantry—the Fighting 69th, as they were generally known—and they looked to be having a quiet laugh at the 107th's expense.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

A barrel-chested man wearing a bowler hat and sergeant's chevrons stepped forward and offered a wide grin beneath a bushy auburn moustache. There was an amused gleam in his twinkling blue eyes. "Oh, we were just wondering how long it's gonna be before Lieutenant Danzig has you all running laps around the ship corridors."

"When he does," said Wells, stifling a yawn. "Feel free to join us. You look like you could stand to lose a few pounds."

"And you look like you could stand to gain a few," the man replied. "Did you lose your galley card on the way over or something?"

"Don't your officers make you do drill?" Bucky interrupted, before it could devolve onto a schoolyard style argument.

"Yeah, but not three times. And not followed by laps. Still, it's entertainment for the rest of us."

"Simple minds…" Wells sniped.

Deciding it would be best if Wells _didn_ _'t_ make enemies of the other regiments being sent to the front lines with them, Bucky extended his hand to the other man.

"I'm Bucky Barnes," he said. "And this is Danny Wells."

The man burst out into a hearty laugh, then shook Bucky's hand.

"So you're the dumb-asses who went up on deck during a storm and had the whole of Camp Shanks stirring their coffee wrong? Yeah, I heard about that," the man grinned. "A guy named Potts told us all about it. The 93rd Signals had the barracks next to ours, in Plymouth."

Bucky groaned silently. Most soldiers liked to embellish. Most didn't take it to the macabre extremes that Wells did, but no doubt the tales about the 107th's exploits in Camp Shanks and on the _Monty_ had grown with each retelling. How many times had Potts told people that the 107th stirred their coffee?

"Dum Dum Dugan," the man offered at last. He grinned again. "If anybody gives you ladies any hassle, you just let me know."

"Any idea where we're heading, Dugan?" Bucky asked, whilst Wells grumbled something too quiet for Bucky to hear.

The man shrugged his broad shoulders. "Your guess is as good as mine. We got a pool going; Africa has the best odds."

"I knew it!" wailed Carrot, who was loitering nearest to the trio. "We're going to get 'et by lions."

"I'm pretty sure there's no lions so far north in Africa," said Dugan. "Now, scorpions, on the other hand…"

"Scorpions?!"

"I'm sure there's no scorpions, Carrot," Bucky said quickly. It was bad enough having to contain the fallout from Wells' bullshit. "And we may not even end up in Africa."

Carrot didn't look convinced, but at that moment the line began to move forward and Dugan rejoined the tail end of the 69th. Wells sidled up to Bucky as they all started to shuffle forward.

"Can you believe that guy? Dancing has made us the butt of the army's jokes."

Bucky said nothing. Sure, Dancing may be a slave-driving jerk, but the sugar-stirring, the getting drenched in a storm, the mystery kitchen-trashing, and the half-dozen other incidents and accidents? That was all kinda on the 107th themselves, not on their whip-cracking officer.

Ten minutes later, Wells got the opportunity he had been waiting for. As the 107th entered the mess, they saw Dancing and Nestor with a group of other lieutenants and a captain at the head of the line for food, trays already in hand. Officers, it seemed, got preferential treatment in the mess hall, as well as a proper room to sleep in. So much for togetherness.

"I have a plan," Wells said.

Before Bucky could quiz him, his friend was off, strolling over to the front of the queue, where the officers were being served. _Oh god, he_ _'s gonna punch him,_ Bucky thought. Wells had finally snapped completely and was gonna get court-martialled for punching an officer.

But Wells didn't punch him. He dropped to the ground behind Dancing and pretended to be tying his shoelace. After a quick glance around to make sure nobody but the closest members of the 107th were watching him, he reached out, _around_ Dancing's legs, to loosely knot two loops of the lieutenant's boot laces together.

Bucky closed his eyes and his mouth went as dry as one of those big African deserts. He couldn't watch. Somebody was gonna see his friend tying Dancing's laces together. Dancing himself was gonna feel something brush against his leg and look down and see Wells' hands at work, and not even Wells' biggest pile of bullshit was gonna get him out of this one.

"Time for a show," said Wells, and Bucky opened his eyes to find his friend safely returned.

"What if you get in trouble, Sarge?" Gusty whispered.

"For what? Nobody saw, and even if they did, they wouldn't say anything."

An uneasy feeling sat in the pit of Bucky's stomach. Two days ago, he would have done almost anything to see Dancing taken down a peg or two. But since then, war had become real, and making one guy's life hell seemed kinda petty in the face of what they were about to be sent into.

It was too late too do anything about it now. Dancing had been served, and as he turned to move away from the counter, his laces held fast and prevented his feet from moving. There was no unbalanced wobble and tilt; he fell like a tree chopped from low down its trunk. He went down with a yell, his tray went clattering to the floor with a loud _crash_ , food soared in an arch, oatmeal and fruit compote painting the walls and the floor in a beige-and-red rainbow.

The rest of the room turned to look, and when they saw what had happened, the mess was filled with a deafening laughter. Dancing's face went beetroot red, though out of anger or embarrassment, it was hard to say. He realised his laces were tangled and quickly unknotted them, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for someone to blame. But everybody except Bucky was laughing, so there was nobody to unleash his wrath on.

As a couple of sailors appeared with a mop and bucket to clean up the mess, and Dancing collected himself and a new tray of food, Bucky took Wells by the arm and led him away from the group.

"I want you to promise me you won't do anything like that again," he said.

Wells looked at him as if he was mad. "Are you kidding me?"

"I get it, you hate Dancing, but this isn't the way to get him to change. It's just cruel, and vindictive."

"Well, yeah, that's the whole point of revenge," Wells scowled. "Don't go soft on me now."

"This isn't about being soft," Bucky told him. "Back home, I have a friend—Steve—and we've been best friends since we were nine years old. He has a real unique habit of getting himself into trouble, and I've lost count of the number of bullies I've pulled off him over the years."

"I'm not a bully." Wells seemed genuinely hurt by the implication.

"I know. But you made it personal. Sure, Dancing's a jerk, but he's not singling anyone out, picking on anyone in particular; he makes us all jump through the same hoops, probably because he's an idiot who doesn't know how to lead despite his officer training. He's not trying to humiliate us on purpose; he actually thinks what he's doing is for the best. Being misguided and intentionally humiliating people are two different things."

"And what if the next guy he tries to stop you carrying to the hospital ward is Tipper, or Hawkins?"

"Then I'll do what I think is right and deal with the repercussions later. You've had your fun, and you've had your revenge for him being an insensitive jerk when you were hurt. Please leave it there. I don't want you to become the kinda guy I've had to spend my life pulling off my best friend back home."

"You sound like you feel sorry for Dancing," Wells accused.

"Maybe I do."

Wells sighed and shook his head. "I really don't get you, sometimes."

Bucky hooked an arm across Wells' shoulders and turned him to look at the officers standing at one of the large square tables in the centre of the mess. A scowl was fixed onto Dancing's face, and the guy ate his oatmeal as quickly as he could, seemingly eager to be out of there. Whatever conversation the other lieutenants were having was lost on him.

"What do you see when you look at Dancing?"

"A brown-nosing jerk who only cares about getting a captain's bars on his uniform."

"Exactly. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

"Only that he's a brown-nosing jerk who only cares about his promotion."

Bucky fought back a sigh of annoyance. A lifetime of being Steve Rogers' best friend had taught him a valuable lesson: that sometimes, you had to look a _lot_ deeper to see who someone really was. But not everyone had grown up on the Steve Rogers learning curve.

"Alright, take you, for example," he offered. Perhaps he was tackling it from the wrong direction. "Your highest priority on any given day is… what? Family? Friends?"

Another look appeared on Wells' face; one of those looks that said he thought Bucky was mad. "Gonna have to go with dames. Right after not getting shot by Nazis."

"Imagine how empty your life would be if your highest priority, all the time, was gettin' promoted. And you cared about it to such an extent that you excluded everything else… family, friends, dames. You ever see Dancing talkin' to anyone else, before today?" Wells shook his head. "Even _Nestor_ doesn't wanna hang out with him. Maybe he cares about his promotion so much because that's the only thing he _has_ to care about."

"Ugh." Wells' mouth twisted into a grimace of distaste. "You're actually making me pity the little brown-noser. Wait, you're not gonna make him your next project, are you? Turn him into your new best buddy? 'Cos I gotta tell you, I don't think that will end well for you."

"No, I'm not. And I don't turn people into projects, thanks. I just don't want to see my friend become the type of person I don't like, all for the sake of a little petty revenge on someone like Dancing. He's not worth it, and you're better than that."

"I don't know if I am."

"Well, I think you are, and you should always listen to your elders."

"Fine. If it'll help you sleep better at nights, then I'll somehow find a way to try not to embarrass Dancing _on purpose._ But I'm still not jumping to obey his orders."

"Me neither," Bucky agreed. There was a difference between humiliation and passive resistance.

"Good. And just so we're clear, we're going to war; the front lines, in fact. That means I'll be shooting at Germans. If you have any problem with that, please speak up now. I'd prefer not to have to deal with your conscience in the middle of a firefight."

"Don't be an ass."

"I just want to make really sure you're okay with me shooting at Krauts. I'd hate to hurt their feelings or something."

Bucky lifted his arm from his friend's shoulders and grabbed him in a headlock, pulling him down so he could rub his knuckles across the top of Wells' head; it was a brotherly punishment he'd inflicted on Charlie—and sometimes Steve, when he was being annoying enough—and it elicited a similar pained, _'Argh, gerrof me!'_ from Wells, who tried to free himself from the headlock by stamping on Bucky's toes. It didn't work, because G.I. boots were pretty sturdy, and Bucky barely felt the stamping at all. When he finally deemed his friend was punished enough for being a jerk, he let go and Wells jumped back to glare at him. Their brief struggle had drawn a few amused glances from the other regiments, but as far as the 107th were concerned, it was just another day at the office.

"Hey, have you forgotten how fragile my enormous head is?" Wells asked, as he tried to flatten his hair back down.

"Just keeping you on your toes, pal," he grinned. Besides, sooner or later, Wells would get the it into his enormous skull that at the end of the day, being a jerk just didn't pay. If it was something Bucky couldn't get through to Dancing, it was at least something he could try to get through to his friend.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _White Fang_ had been finished in England, so Bucky had traded it back to Gusty for _Oliver Twist_ , which he was enjoying more than he thought he would. Life in Victorian London was very different to everything he had experienced growing up in New York. Maybe, before the was was over, he'd even get to visit London, and perhaps walk down some of the streets from the story… if they were even real streets to begin with.

A commotion further down the quarters caught his attention, and he glanced over the top of his bed to see Tipper come flying down the narrow aisle between the rows of beds, tripping over duffel bags, stumbling into bunks, but keeping up a pace that suggested the hounds of hell were hot on his heels. The kid didn't slow until he all but fell to a halt beside Bucky's bunk, and when he finally stopped, he combined gasping for air with talking in a way that didn't afford much success to either.

"Sarge—… coming back—… got lost—… thought I heard—"

"Breathe," Wells instructed, a bored tone from the bunk below.

And Tipper did. He doubled over, trying to pull air into his lungs, looking simultaneously flustered and pale about his face. Bucky hoped to God Tipper wasn't about to tell them that Dancing was on his way, to put them through laps as Dugan had suggested.

"Start from the beginning, Tipper," Bucky said, when the kid looked suitably recovered.

Tipper nodded. His dark brown eyes were wide with something that might be terror.

"I was on my way back from the john when I lost my way… it wasn't my fault, the corridors all look the same on this ship… and I was going past this room, and I heard voices speaking from inside—"

"You eavesdropped?" Wells asked. "Good boy."

"I didn't mean to," Tipper said quickly. "But the voices weren't speaking English, and I thought that was odd, so I peered over the door through the glass panel, and I saw a group of guys sitting at a table eating dinner, and Sarge… they were _German!_ "

Bucky folded over the top corner of his page and closed his book. "What were they saying?" he asked the young private.

"I don't know, they were speaking German."

"How do you know they were German," Wells mused, "and not Austrians, or German-speaking Swiss?"

"Well, their uniforms looked pretty German to me, Sarge."

Bucky slid down from his bunk and landed on the floor. "Think you could show us where this room is?"

"Uh, I guess. If I can find it again."

"'Us'?" asked Wells, one dark eyebrow rising. He, like Bucky, was passing the time with a novel. He'd gone back to _A Tree Grows In Brooklyn._ Bucky had tried to get another copy of it off Gusty, to see what about that damn book kept Wells reading it, but Gusty didn't have another, and Wells still wouldn't let him borrow it.

"Aren't you in the least bit curious about why there are Germans on board?"

" _Possible_ Germans," Wells corrected. "And no, not really."

"What if they're spies?!" Tipper squeaked nervously.

"Then I'd say they're doing a piss-poor job of blending in." A thoughtful gleam stole across Wells' eyes. "They were eating dinner, you say? What were they having?"

"I dunno, but it smelt real good."

"Alright, you've got my interest." Wells tossed his book down onto his bed and rolled his shoulders to work out the knots. "Let's see what's on the menu."

Tipper led them back through the troop quarters and out into the corridors. Since soldiers weren't supposed to be out of quarters unless they had a specific need, they settled on feeling seasick and needing to use the john as an excuse for being 'lost' out of their designated area. It took a while for Tipper to find the room again; he'd been running full pelt back to the bunk room and hadn't taken real notice of where he was going. In the end, they managed to back-track by starting at the bathroom and having Tipper try to recreate his getting lost which had initially led to him finding the room.

Outside the door, they all crouched down, ears strained for sounds. Sure enough, a moment later, they heard quiet voices. Bucky crept to the other side of the door, and peered cautiously over the glass panel into the room. He saw five—no, six—men wearing German uniforms, and they were sitting at a table enjoying a meal of something that looked far more appetising than anything Bucky had been served on the _Monty_ , including the hotdogs they'd had on Independence Day.

"Looks like they're having spare ribs," whispered Wells, peering over from the opposite corner. "Bastards. I bet we're on boiled cabbage or something."

"I like boiled cabbage with butter on it," Tipper whispered back.

"There won't be any butter, Tipper."

"Aww."

Bucky pressed his ear to the door, and a moment later, Wells did too. He couldn't exactly say he'd heard a lot of German in his life, but from what he could remember of basic phrases taught in boot camp, it sounded pretty German to him.

"What are they saying?" he whispered to Wells.

"Hmm. Well, that one on the left just said, _'Hey, I really like sausage. Do you like sausage?'_ and the one in the middle replied, _'Yes, I love sausage.'_ "

"Why don't I believe you?"

"Remember that conversation we had back in Camp Shanks, when I told you I spoke fluent German?"

"Uh, no?"

"Exactly." Wells rolled his eyes. "How the hell should I know what they're saying, Barnes? I don't speak Kraut."

"What should we do?" Tipper asked. In his hands, his coin flipped nervously through his fingers.

"I think we should go back to the troop quarters and play poker," said Wells. "I think I can fleece Dugan out of everything he owns."

"What about these guys?" Bucky asked, pointing his thumb at the door behind which they were crouched.

"They probably don't wanna play poker with us." Wells offered a noncommittal shrug. "They're obviously not stowaways or spies, or they wouldn't be dining on ribs. And I doubt they're prisoners of war, because why they hell would we be taking them back _towards_ Germany? Maybe they're here to… I dunno, translate messages intercepted by the ship, or something."

"Maybe," said Bucky, "but I have a bad feeling about them being here." A bad feeling like the time he'd told Steve, ' _Don_ _'t do anything stupid till I get back,'_ and then walked away from him trying to enlist for the fifth time. Of course, Steve wouldn't have succeeded. He'd been turned away four times already, and the fifth would be no different.

"Of course you do. They're German."

"I bet this is why that sailor said we weren't allowed to go wandering around the ship," Tipper whispered. "Probably didn't want us finding out there's Germans on board."

"Probably."

"Aren't you in the least bit curious about why they're here?" Bucky asked his friend.

"Sure. But what are you gonna do, walk up to the Skipper and demand he tell you what's going on aboard his ship? Obviously, this is top secret stuff. I bet Dancing doesn't even know about them."

"I think we should tell Weiss," he suggested. "See what he says."

"Alright," Wells relented. "But let's at least tell him on the quiet. No telling what sort of panic there'll be in troop quarters if people find out there's Krauts aboard. That goes for you too, Tipper. Keep your pie-hole shut, alright?"

"Yes, Sarge," Tipper replied glumly. No doubt he'd been looking forward to telling the tale of how he'd come across a room full of German spies. Soon enough, six Germans eating ribs would become twenty Germans slaughtering crewmen, and then there would be pandemonium.

Back in troop quarters, they found Weiss, extracted him from a game of shooting dice he was playing with a couple of other members of the 107th, and told him about their discovery. His first response was a non-committal grunt.

"Ribs? Bastards," he growled.

Wells shot Bucky an _'I told you so,'_ look, and Bucky turned back to the elder sergeant.

"What, that's it? We tell you there's Germans on board, and you complain they're better fed than we are?"

"Do you boys think this war is won by you and me and these other idiots we're trying to keep alive long enough to see home again?" Weiss scoffed. "We're just a showy distraction. We make a lot of noise and run in firing bullets and hope to keep Hitler's attention away from where we don't want him to look. Every side has secret agents, double agents, triple agents… hell, I bet even their agents have agents. At least half the war goes on in the dark, all secrecy and intelligence. Real cloak-and-daggers stuff. Whatever those Germans are doing here, you can bet your bottom dollar that someone real high up in the White House knows why they're here and what they're doing, right down to what flavour sauce they've got on those ribs. For all we know, they could even be undercover MI6 agents prepping for their role. You boys remember lesson number one from boot camp, right?"

Bucky nodded. _Rule number 1. Don_ _'t ask questions unless those questions are to clarify an important part of your mission._

"Good. I'm going back to my dice. It would be best if you forgot about what you saw, and sit hard on however many of your men already know about it. The last thing you want is to be responsible for blowing some carefully planned mission."

"Am I the only one who's got a bad feelin' about this?" Bucky asked his friend, when Weiss returned to his game.

"The only thing I'm feeling is that I should've signed up to be a spy instead of a soldier. I could be dining on ribs right now. Cheer up, Barnes!" said Wells, throwing his arm around Bucky's shoulders and leading him back up the aisle. "Like Weiss said, there's nothing we can do about it. Those Germans have probably got nothing to do with our mission. Tell you what, why don't we challenge the human walrus and a few of the 69th to a poker game? Winning a few games of cards is sure to take your mind off those Germans."

It wouldn't. But Wells was right. The matter of the Germans was out of their hands, and they'd probably never find out why they'd been forced to share a ship with enemy soldiers… or spies… or double-agents. He just wished the waters they trod were a little less muddy. All this secrecy… it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: Don't worry, it's just a short voyage this time! For anybody wondering about the ships in this story, they're all real. The USS Monticello (AP-61) was originally the SS Conte Grande ocean liner, converted to a troop transport in September 1942. It did sail very briefly with the USS Lansdale, and was active both in the European and Pacific Theaters. The HMS King George V was the lead ship of five King George V-class battleships, it partook in the sinking of the Bismarck, and by happy coincidence it was en route at this time to the Med, where it took part in Operation Husky (the Allied invasion of Sicily), allowing it to be perfectly placed to drop off Our Heroes along the way. Google has plenty of pictures, if you'd like to see any of the ships in question._


	14. The SSR

We Were Soldiers

 _14\. The SSR_

From his position on the small boat, Bucky looked back at the battleship that had brought them to their destination. At this distance, it looked like a child's toy… one with enough firepower to wipe out half of Plymouth. With a shiver of foreboding, he put the thoughts out of his mind and turned back to look at the shoreline.

There was no dock here. The troops had to be ferried to shore on the _King George_ _'s_ lifeboats… but it wasn't much of a shore, either. A flat spit of land covered with green rushes that were slowly turning to gold, jutted out into the sea. Bucky could see no sign of roads, or towns, and the swampy marshland was like nothing he'd ever seen before in his life. If he hadn't known he was in Europe, he might have thought the ship had brought them to the waterlogged bayous of the Mississippi.

Several boats were ahead of Bucky's, and he watched as the pair of sailors rowing them held the small craft as steady as possible whilst the troops disembarked. The soldiers who slid out of the boats immediately landed up to their knees in water. When he saw them wade forward, in an attempt to find solid ground, Bucky's heart sank a little. His first day in Europe was gonna be spent in soaked boots, and he already knew how badly the boots chafed when they got wet.

"How deep do you think it is here, Sarge?" asked Carrot, peering over the side of the boat.

"No deeper than waist-high, I imagine." He clapped the young corporal on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Carrot, you'll be fine. I'll make sure of it."

Carrot swallowed and nodded, trying to put on a brave mask. "Thanks."

The sailors rowed the boat as close to the boggy spit of land as they could get, and Bucky could put off the inevitable no longer. They'd been aboard the _King George V_ for almost a day and a half; Bucky had no idea which country they were about to land in, and despite the heat of the early afternoon, he suspected the water temperature was going to be considerably lower.

His suspicions were confirmed when he slid overboard and sank to his knees in water that could be best described as _tepid._ He gasped from the shock of it, then quickly instructed the rest of the troops in his boat—who looked about as enthusiastic as he felt—to climb over and make for dry land. Ahead, Weiss and two groups from the 69th had already struck out for the shore proper, and looked to be finding solid ground.

"I don't remember signing up for no aquatic missions," Davies grumbled, as he too sank to his knees.

When his feet finally hit dry land, Bucky checked his guns and gear for any signs of damp and, satisfied that nothing but him had gotten wet, aped the other men in crouching down amongst the reeds, lowering his profile to the height of the vegetation. He didn't _think_ the colonel would have them disembark in an area that had a strong German presence, but then, he'd never met the colonel, and Weiss didn't seem to have much faith in the upper echelon. Then again, Weiss didn't seem to have much faith in _anything_.

Several more boats ferried more troops to the shore. Bucky watched as Gusty and Franklin appeared from one boat, and Wells and Hawkins from another. In the other boats were members from the 69th and 370th, and they all floundered towards dry land, until some five hundred men had been deposited in their sodden environment. Next came the officers and the equipment, and as he watched the rest of the gear unloaded, the situation struck him as… odd. Three infantry regiments were being deployed with virtually no support units. There were no engineers amongst the regiments, no communications staff, no medical teams… no artillery. Suddenly, he wished he'd let Wells tell him what the survival rate for troops on the front lines was.

Bucky finally got his first glimpse of Colonel Hawkswell. He was a tall, slim guy who looked to be in his forties. There was a no-nonsense, stiff-backed air about him, and he seemed not to care in the slightest that his troops were landing in a swamp. As soon as he reached dry land, he took the rest of the officers aside to brief them over a map that he lay out on the ground. Bucky didn't recognise all the men with him, but it wasn't hard to guess who they were. Since the 107th had no officers higher than the rank of lieutenant, the white captain amongst them must be the 69th's commanding officer, whilst the black captain had to be the 370th's. Each captain had one lieutenant apiece, and another lieutenant hovered beside Hawkswell, most likely the man's executive officer.

While the officers met, Bucky focused on his surroundings. The air was hot, humid, and small biting insects were already beginning to feast on the flesh of the men who'd intruded in their habitat. Small birds fluttered here and there, clinging to the slender rushes as they picked at whatever insects they could find. Out on the open water, a family of ducks—their appearance sending an aching pang of familiarity through Bucky's chest—had been disturbed by the landing of so many men, and had abandoned their nests for the sanctuary of the bay. The air was filled with a symphony of croaks and chirps, which turned out to be frogs; one hopped across Bucky's boot as he crouched motionless, and he smiled at its beady eyes and bulging throat. The last time he'd seen frogs he'd been thirteen, visiting his cousin for the summer. The small amphibians had been prolific around his uncle's fish pond.

At last the officers broke up. "Weiss, Barnes, Wells," Dancing called, whilst Nestor trotted twitchily after the colonel and another lieutenant. When Bucky and his fellow sergeants approached, Dancing took out a map similar to the one the colonel had been poring over. As soon as Bucky's eyes fell on the waxed paper, his heart leapt into his mouth. _France._ They were in France. That meant they weren't just _on_ the front line… they were _behind_ it. Immediately, the number of things that could go horribly wrong rose exponentially.

"Sergeants," said Dancing, his voice taking on a lecturing tone, "we are roughly here." His finger came down on the map over a place on the southern coast called _Parc Natural Regional de Camargue,_ which Bucky loosely translated to 'Big Swampy Park.' "We are to rendezvous with a Colonel Phillips, of the Strategic Scientific Reserve, somewhere in this area. You will each take a team and search the area north-east of us, whilst the 69th search to the north, and the 307th to the north-west. If you've not found Colonel Phillips by eighteen-hundred hours, you're to make your way to this area, where our company will be making camp for the night." The place selected for the camp site was a small area of land between two large bodies of water. Bucky suspected they were in for a damp night. Frogs might feature heavily.

"Are we expecting to encounter enemy troops?" asked Weiss.

Bucky's heart momentarily stopped. _Enemy troops._ Like war, the enemy had always been a thought or a concept… until now. Now, they were real. Bucky could be shooting at them at any moment. He'd never shot at anything living before, and every step he took from here on out, people would be shooting at Bucky. Trying to kill him. He licked his lips and tried to work a little moisture back into his suddenly dry mouth. Told himself to get a grip; Weiss and Wells weren't letting this get to them. Wells' eyes were scanning the map as if he might locate Colonel Phillips just by studying the paper, and Weiss was treating this like a stroll through the park.

"Not in any great force," Dancing replied, completely oblivious to one of his sergeants having a minor attack of sheer terror. "Though there may be German foot patrols. Now, it is imperative that our presence here be kept quiet, therefore you're only to engage enemy forces if it becomes absolutely necessary. Do you understand?"

"Yessir," they all agreed.

"Good." Dancing nodded happily to himself, as if the job had already been done. "Choose your teams and leave the rest of the men with everything except the essentials. You'll be travelling fast and light. Oh, and do try not to get yourselves lost."

They saluted, and he left. Weiss grumbled something unflattering under his breath, and returned to the waiting men to organise his team.

"You ever hear of this 'Strategic Scientific Reserve'?" Wells asked.

Bucky shook his head. "Wherever they are, we've got a lot of ground to cover." The area indicated by Dancing had been twenty or so square miles. "Who do you want?"

"I'll take Gusty, Davies and Biggs."

"Alright." Bucky turned to the waiting men, and said, "Gusty, Davies, Biggs, you're with Wells. Carrot, Franklin, Hawkins, with me. We're travelling light, so divvy up the kit you don't need for the rest of the men to carry."

"What about me, Sarge?" Tipper asked.

"You stay with the regiment." _Stay where it_ _'s safe_ , he mentally added. He sure as hell wasn't gonna purposely put the kid in danger.

"Aww, but Sarge—"

"Don't 'but sarge' me, Tipper. There'll be plenty of missions in the future."

"Besides," Wells piped up, as he handed his duffel over to another member of the 107th, "somebody's gotta stay behind and keep an eye on Dancing in case he plans any more surprise drills for us."

"I don't mind staying behind," Gusty offered.

"Tough luck, Gusty," Bucky told him.

They set off with Weiss' team in a north-easterly direction, each one carrying his rifle with the safety off. _This is real,_ Bucky thought, as the bright sun did its best to dry his damp clothes. _This is actually real. I_ _'m in France, behind enemy lines, and at any moment I might have to kill someone._

"I'm gonna take my team and head that way," said Weiss, nodding at a patch of trees in the far distance. "You boys watch your backs."

Bucky watched the team go, Weiss at their head, and wished he could feel inside how Weiss appeared on the outside; cool, calm, unworried about the possibility of being shot at. How did the guy manage it?

"Nervous?" Wells asked him.

Bucky checked his hands before answering, to make sure they weren't shaking. "A little. You?"

"A little." Wells gave him a small smile. "Guess we should split up. Cover more ground."

"Yeah. The sooner we find this 'Colonel Phillips,' the sooner we'll be back at camp."

"Two bucks says I find him first."

"You're on," he agreed. No chance he was letting Wells find the guy first. "C'mon, you lot," he said to his team. "Let's check out those trees to the north."

"Mind those puddles," Wells called after them.

Bucky glanced back at the landing site and saw the rest of the company getting ready to move out. Just as he was about to turn away, he saw something, out on the waves; it was another of the small boats from the battleship, with a group of men inside it. At this distance, he couldn't tell for sure, but he thought the uniforms they wore were the same uniforms he'd seen the day before, on the German soldiers.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"All I'm saying is, it's not right. They've no right to inflict that sort of horror and torture on us. We'd be better off drinking arsenic."

Bucky walked in silence, his eyes scanning the land around them, as Franklin continued with his half-hour complaint. After an hour of searching, they'd taken a brief stop to rehydrate, since the sun was doing its best to burn them to a crisp. Franklin had opened one of his ration packs, and found a synthetic lemon powder that he'd mixed in with his canteen water. He'd unwisely taken several large gulps, then vomited it all back up. Everyone else had tried a sip, and agreed that it was the foulest, most acidic thing they'd ever tasted.

"I guess it's supposed to stop us getting scurvy, like the sailors on those ships Wells talked about," said Carrot.

"I'm not sure how poisoning us is gonna accomplish that."

Movement behind a line of trees set Bucky's heart beating a rapid staccato in his chest. He raised a fist, and Franklin halted mid-sentence. Frogs croaked and birds sang into the heavy afternoon air. Would they still do that, if there was a German patrol waiting in ambush? Didn't they say that animals could sense catastrophes before they happened, that they had a feel for when violence was about to happen, a sort of sixth sense? Or was that just a piece of bullshit somebody had once made up? Would frogs croak and birds sing even throughout a slaughter?

The movement came again, and they all lifted their weapons, preparing to open fire. The moment stretched out, tension heightening, until the summer air seemed laden with the palpable taste of it. And it tasted like… synthetic lemon powder, all bitter and acrid.

A small herd of white horses stepped out from behind the line of trees, a couple of them tearing at what long grass was able to grow in the marshy conditions. Their pale coats gave them a sort of phantom, otherworldly look, but phantom horses couldn't pull up real grass. There wasn't even any such thing as phantom horses. Bucky let his body relax, let the tension slowly drain away as he, and then the others, lowered their guns. The horses saw the movement, and like the team had just done, they stopped dead, senses alert, ears pointing upright and forward as their large eyes focused on the intruders. Then, one of them gave a whinny of alarm, and the whole group turned and galloped through the marsh, soon out of sight behind another stand of trees.

"Is, um, that normal for France?" Franklin asked.

"I dunno," Bucky admitted. "I guess it must be."

"I didn't know they had horses in France, Sarge," said Carrot. He looked warily around. "You don't think they were _German_ horses, do you?"

"I don't think they were domesticated," Hawkins offered. "I haven't done much around horses myself, but my sister, Betsy, used to go riding all the time before she had kids. And I think if those were tame horses, they would have come up to us looking for food and stuff."

"I wish I had Murphy's camera with me right now," said Bucky. Nobody was gonna believe him about the white horses.

They continued their search in silence. Bucky had no idea how large the Strategic Scientific Reserve was, but if they were anywhere around here, they were doing one hell of a job at hiding. The land around the estuary was flat and open, marshy fields separated only by thin strips of trees which made the most of what solid ground they could find. In three hours they'd gone six miles, the going made tougher by the swamp-like terrain which re-soaked their boots and pants every time the hot summer sun managed to dry them. Bucky, working on the premise that any troops hiding here ought to be using the trees as cover, led his team from one stand of trees to another, so that they traversed the marsh in an irregular zig-zag pattern.

Maybe they were walking for nothing. Maybe Weiss, or Wells, or one of the scout teams from the other regiments, had already found Colonel Phillips. If that was the case, Bucky hoped that it was Weiss, or one of the other regiments, that had found him. Otherwise, he was gonna be down two bucks by the time he got back to camp.

They took another rest break in the late afternoon, and Bucky checked his watch. His dad had given him that watch, the day before he'd gone to boot camp. Said it was waterproof and scratch-proof and that it had served him well when he'd fought in Europe. Said it would serve Bucky just as well now. So far, it had kept perfect time, and now that time said five o'clock. One hour of searching left before they had to return to base. Squinting in the bright sunlight, Bucky scanned the area around them, and saw another cluster of trees not too far away.

"Time's getting on, guys," he said. "We'll make that island of trees over there our last stop before we RTB."

"Thank God," Franklin sighed. "I hate this place." He looked sadly down at his boots. "Doubt my sugar's survived all this swamp water."

The knowledge that they would soon be returning to camp put a small spring in their steps as they made their way towards the cluster of trees. The knowledge that they'd probably have to do all of this again tomorrow quickly removed that spring. Another day in this humid, sodden swamp was not something he was particularly looking forward to. Spending a night in it was even less appealing.

They walked up a slight incline to the trees—the proverbial high ground—and the first sign Bucky had that they weren't alone was the sound of a pistol being cocked. As soon as he heard it, he dropped to one knee, his rifle up at shoulder-height, ready to open fire. He had to give his team credit; they were barely a heartbeat behind him, their weapons trained in different directions to cover all their bases.

"Identify yourselves," a voice called out.

Bucky swallowed the lump that was trying to lodge itself in his throat and choke him. "Sergeant Barnes, 107th Infantry," he replied.

A few seconds later, a head popped up from behind a patch of thorny scrub. The guy was wearing a U.S. Army uniform, and he held his pistol up in a neutral position as he rose higher. More men stepped out from behind tree trunks, pistols and rifles lowered.

"Sergeant Raleigh, 46th Engineers." The man offered a quick salute, even though it wasn't necessary. "It's good to see a friendly face out here, Sergeant."

Bucky gestured for his men to lower their weapons, and he stood to shake his counterpart's hand. "We're looking for a Colonel Phillips, with the Strategic Scientific Reserve. Know anything about that?"

"You're in luck, Sergeant Barnes," Raleigh smiled. "The SSR? That's us. Or rather, we've been assigned to them. Guess you're the backup we've been expecting?"

Bucky nodded. "Guess so."

"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here. The Colonel's been on edge ever since we arrived. We've only got a handful of infantry with us—the 9th, and they're severely depleted—and me and my men have been doing guard duty for over a week."

"Can you take us to Colonel Phillips?"

"Sure. Though, would you mind asking your men to stay here and keep watch with my lot? Staring at the same swamp, day in and day out… kinda makes the fellas get twitchy. Some fresh eyes would be welcome."

"Alright. Carrot, you, Franklin and Hawkins keep a lookout for any more of those dangerous German horses, alright?" He saw Raleigh's quizzical expression, and shook his head with a smile. "Don't ask."

Raleigh took him through the small wooded area, and then down behind the shallow hill, where Bucky found a sight for sore eyes. The SSR had established a camp on firm ground; on one side was a long tent, with twin flags of the Medical Corps and the Red Cross waving listlessly in the breeze outside it. Opposite the hospital tent was a motor pool, with a dozen jeeps parked outside, and a little further away, four Sherman tanks lined up side by side. Five or six howitzers were close by, and under a khaki tarp, he saw something that looked like it might be a fighter plane.

 _This is more like it!_ he thought, as he walked into the camp behind his guide. He saw shoulder patches denoting the Signal Corps, as well as Engineers and Medical. Here was the support the Infantry regiments so desperately needed.

Outside a smaller tent, Raleigh stopped and addressed one of the men standing outside the door flap.

"Sergeant Barnes from the 107th is here to see the Colonel."

The man disappeared into the tent, and a moment later the Colonel himself stepped out. If Bucky was to imagine someone who was the polar opposite of Colonel Hawkswell, Colonel Phillips would have been it. He was a grizzled bear of a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a craggy face that looked like it wouldn't have been out of place chiselled into the slopes of Mount Rushmore. Steely grey eyes assessed Bucky from beneath a peaked cap, and he quickly threw up his best salute.

"Sir, Sergeant James Barnes, 107th Infantry."

"Whose taskforce are you with, Sergeant?"

"Colonel Hawkswell, Sir."

"Hawkswell, hmm? Never heard of him. Follow me."

Bucky followed the man to his command tent, where a half-dozen maps and various radio transmitters were strewn about. A pair of administrators glanced up when the Colonel entered, but swiftly resumed whatever work they were doing on their own map.

"When'd you arrive, Sergeant?" asked Phillips, as he rolled out a map across the table and weighted the corners down with whatever was closest to hand. That turned out to be two rocks, an empty coffee cup and a gas mask.

"Early this afternoon, sir."

"Which regiments? And you don't need to 'sir' me on every sentence, Sergeant. Things get said faster with less kowtowing. Start and end of the conversation's enough."

 _Thank God_. His drill sergeants in basic training had been sticklers for etiquette, and Dancing went positively apoplectic if a sentenced passed un-sir'ed. He didn't know yet how strict a CO Hawkswell would be, but at least Phillips wasn't gonna stand on formality at every available opportunity.

"The 107th, 69th and 370th Infantries. About five hundred men in total."

"Good. And the package? Is it safe?"

"The… package, sir?"

Phillips gave him a long, blank look, then gestured down at the map. "We're here," he said, pointing to a spot just past the midway point of the estuarine area. "Where's your company's base camp?"

"They're making camp here for the night," Bucky said, leaning down and pointing at the soggy place Dancing had indicated earlier.

"Hmph." Phillips' eyes scanned the area between the two camps. It seemed the conversation about the package, whatever that was, had never happened. "By the time you make it back, it'll be too late to bring five hundred men across the swamp. I'd rather have them arrive fresh in the morning, ready to march. We've been too long in this area; we need to move. Go back and tell Colonel Hawkswell to have his men here no later than nine o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll have my camp dismantled and ready to go by then."

"Yessir," Bucky said, with a final salute.

With a smile, he stepped out of the tent and made his way back to the lookout position. By this time tomorrow they'd be setting up a real camp, hopefully somewhere drier than this swamp. He didn't care how many miles he had to march during the day, as long as he got to rest his head somewhere dry tomorrow night.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Halfway through their three hour march, Bucky fell back to walk with the rest of the 107th. Since he'd led the team that had found Phillips, Hawkswell had called him up a couple of times to get his input on upcoming terrain, which had made Dancing positively _seethe_ with jealousy, and had gotten Bucky close enough to the group of silent men near the front of the column to be sure, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that they were wearing German military uniforms. Now, he suspected the 'package' Phillips had spoken of wasn't a package at all.

Wells yawned widely as Bucky fell in beside him. "How's it feel to be the colonel's favourite?"

"I'm not his favourite," Bucky said, stamping down on it before it could become a rumour. "I've just been this way before. That's all."

"If that was all, Dancing wouldn't he stabbing you in the back with his eyes every time the colonel calls you up. Poor Dancing. All he wants is a little attention from his proxy father-figure, and he can't even get that. S'pose it could be worse for you, though. At least the colonel doesn't hate you like he hates me."

"The colonel doesn't hate you, Wells."

"Sure he does. All authority figures do. I really can't figure it out. I mean, I don't even have to open my mouth around them, and they hate me. Even when I was a kid at school, the teachers loved me for my brilliance while resenting me for my intellect."

"Maybe they take exception to your ego," Bucky said drily. "I'm surprised you don't go floating into the sky, with all the hot air in that big head of yours."

"At least if I was floating, my feet would be dry."

"Amen," he agreed. The sun was not yet hot enough, nor high enough, to dry their sodden pants and boots between the soakings they got in the marshlands. "Look on the bright side, though; we'll soon be out of this swamp. I told you the camp had jeeps, right? And tanks? I think I even saw a plane."

"I'd be happy with a decent cup of coffee and a bit of dry ground to stand on."

"One day in a swamp, and look how far your expectations have slipped."

"I think," Wells said, his eyes darting around the ground as he looked for less-damp areas to put his feet, "the colonel hates me because I was last back to camp. But it wasn't my fault Biggs got stung by a wasp, and that his leg swelled up so bad he could only hobble for an hour." He glanced over his shoulder, to where Biggs was limping beside Franklin and Tipper. "How's it goin', Biggs?"

"Better, Sarge. At least the burning's stopped."

"I probably should've taken Tipper," Wells said quietly to Bucky. "Gusty and I could've carried him back, if he'd been stung by a wasp. But Biggs? Not a chance."

"Maybe we can get him a ride in one of those jeeps."

"Yeah, I s'pose it's worth a try."

The company covered the six miles to the rendezvous point well within the three hours Colonel Hawkswell had allotted for the journey, and as they arrived at the SSR camp, they found it in disarray. Half the tents were still in the process of being dismantled, and men were running back and forth carrying equipment to be taken along. Hawkswell's company halted just outside the camp perimeter, to try and stay out from under the feet. The colonel and his XO went down to speak to Phillips, and as he watched them, Wells let out a quiet whistle.

"Who's the dame?"

"What dame?" Bucky asked.

"The dame with the colonels. Don't tell me you didn't see her yesterday."

Bucky followed Wells' gaze, and discovered that his friend wasn't actually bullshitting. There, standing beside Colonel Phillips, was a young woman wearing some kinda uniform that he didn't recognise.

"No, I definitely would have remembered seeing her," he replied. Her skin was like porcelain, her lips rouged and dark hair pinned in place, giving her a groomed, professional look. He suspected she was one of those confident dames. Hell, how could she _not_ be confident, looking like that?

"Davies," Wells said, and the Pfc. stepped up to join them. "You know who that dame is? Or what she's doing here?"

"We only just got here, Wells," Davies countered.

"Well, go find out."

Bucky glanced over to Dancing, but the lieutenant was too busy watching Colonel Hawkswell for any sign that he might be summoned, to be paying any attention to what the men in his regiment were doing. Wells had spotted that, too.

"Gusty, take Biggs to find a medic, and tell them what happened to his leg. See if you can get him a ride on a jeep or somethin'."

"Right, Sarge."

"You know there's bound to be nurses amongst those medics," Bucky pointed out. "Why aren't you taking Biggs yourself?"

"Because you're gonna show me this plane you saw yesterday," Wells said, a boyish grin creeping across his face.

"Uh, why?"

"Because I've never been on a plane before. I don't think I've ever seen one up close, either. My old man is a Navy man through and through, so he never let us go watch any air shows. I would'a joined the Airforce just to annoy him, but gettin' into the Army was faster and easier."

"Alright. But it wasn't a very big plane. And it was under a tarp."

They snuck away, using a pile of supplies as a screen to make their escape from Dancing's less-than-watchful eyes. Bucky took a moment to get his bearings, then led the way to the place where he thought he'd seen the plane yesterday. And sure enough, there it was, being fastened down to the bed of a flat wagon that had been hitched to the back of a tank. When Bucky saw who was directing the soldiers who were securing the plane to the wagon, his eyes widened so much that they almost popped right out of his head.

"I don't believe it. That's Howard Stark!"

"That's not Howard Stark," said Wells, squinting at the only guy in the camp dressed in civilian clothing. "It's just someone who looks like him."

"I'm telling you, that's Howard Stark," Bucky insisted. He'd stood not twenty feet away from the guy, at the World Fair's Stark Expo last month. "C'mon, let's get closer."

"What would a man with Howard Stark's genius and money be doing in this piss-hole with _us_?" Wells asked. But when Bucky didn't respond, he followed. "So you're telling me you not only missed spottin' a smoking hot dame, but one of America's richest men, when you were here yesterday? How the hell did _you_ find this camp?"

Bucky ignored his fellow sergeant. He'd only gotten a quick look around the camp yesterday, and had been more interested in the equipment than the people. Now, up close, twenty feet away from the man once more, there was no doubt in Bucky's mind that this was Howard Stark. Sure, the guy wasn't wearing the tux and top hat Bucky had last seen him in, and the beautiful, glittery-attired dames were conspicuously absent, but if this wasn't Howard Stark, it was his identical twin brother.

"Be careful with that rope, make sure it's fastened tight," Stark called out to one of the soldiers. "Don't want her slipping away from me." When he heard the sound of Bucky and Wells approaching, he turned and rubbed his hands together. "I don't recognise you two from the camp. You must be the fresh fodder we've been expecting. Have you guys come for an autograph or somethin'?"

"Mr. Stark, I saw your flying car at the Expo in New York last month," Bucky blurted out, before Wells could say something stupid.

"Oh, a couple of fans, eh? Well, don't worry; my flying plane does a lot better than my flying car. Still haven't quite got all the kinks worked out of that one yet."

"Have you thought about flying boots?" Wells asked. "So troops crossing swamps don't have to get their feet wet?"

"Flying boots are about sixtieth on my list of priorities, right after soluble lemon powder that doesn't corrode your insides. I have no idea what field of so-called science the monkey who designed that powder graduated in, but I'm pretty sure it's no field recognised in the civilised world."

"Barnes! Wells!"

Bucky cringed on the inside. He should'a known their escape wouldn't have gone unnoticed for long. Turning, he saw Dancing striding over, all righteous indignation.

"I don't recall giving you permission to wander away, Sergeants."

"Oh, I conscripted them into helping me get my plane on the wagon," said Stark. "You can't expect a man with my towering intellect to do his own manual labour; physical toil stunts my genius."

Dancing refused to back down all the way. "Well. Maybe next time you should ask an officer to assign men to assist you."

" _Ask_?" said Stark. He sounded like it was the first time he'd ever heard of the word. "What a novel concept. I'm not much of an asker, though. See, part of my billion-dollar contract with the U.S. Armed Forces is that in return for supplying new weapons and cutting edge technology that's gonna help win the war, I get to boss people around. Pretty much anyone I want, really. It's in the fine print. Ask Phillips if you don't believe me; he likes to keep a copy of my contract on him at all times, so he can remind me how short my leash is."

It occurred to Bucky, as he watched Dancing's eyes dart back and forth while he looked for some kinda comeback, that perhaps coming to look at the plane wasn't such a good idea. He'd accidentally put himself right between the three biggest egos in France, and only the entertainment value of _Stark versus Dancing_ was keeping Wells quiet right now.

In the end, Dancing gave up. He blanked Stark, and turned his ire on the others. "Get back to the regiment, Sergeants, and the next time someone other than me asks you to do something, you come and check with me first. Understood?"

"Sir," Bucky agreed, and gave his friend a shove to get him moving, because he could see something bitterly sarcastic rising in Wells' eyes.

They got back to the rest of the group just in time to see Colonels Hawkswell and Phillips approach, with three soldiers in tow. Bucky caught the tail end of their conversation.

"…so after the program ended, most of the candidates were sent back to their units, but I brought the three most promising recruits with me. Figured you might find some use for them."

Hawkswell nodded. "Lieutenant Danzig, these men are now assigned to the 107th. See that they're settled in."

"Yes, Colonel," Dancing all but purred. When the colonels left, Dancing turned to Weiss. "Sergeant Weiss, see that the new recruits are settled in." Then, he strolled after the colonels, trying not to make it too obvious that he was loitering behind them as they walked.

"Sir." Weiss turned to Bucky and his friends. "Barnes, Wells; new recruits. Settle 'em in. I'm too old for hand-holding." Too old, and probably pissed that he didn't get his afternoon nap yesterday. He wandered back to where he'd dumped his duffel bag, and took a seat on it to watch the camp activities.

Bucky approached the three new soldiers, and Wells joined him in assessing them. _Candidates_ , Phillips had called them… but for what? Whatever it was, Phillips thought they were promising, which had to be a good thing. Maybe these guys had some idea about what the SSR was, and what it was doing out here in the middle of nowhere. And why Stark was with them, and what they needed with a group of German soldiers. There were too many mysteries, and he didn't like being kept in the dark.

The first of the candidates was a tall, broad-shouldered young man with a spattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and sharp blue eyes. All three of the men were standing to attention, but this man was the tallest; as tall as Carrot. His short, dark brown hair was messy, as if he'd forgotten to comb it after getting out of bed.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Private Thomas Robertson," the man drawled slowly in a country accent.

"Where are you from, cowboy?" Wells asked.

"Texas, Sarge."

"Easy. We're calling you 'Tex."

They moved on to the next soldier, a short, olive-skinned man with black hair and a feeble attempt at a moustache.

"Private Emilio Hernandez," the man said with a quick salute.

"And where are _you_ from, Hernandez?" Wells asked him.

"Arizona."

"Where's your family from?"

"Uhh… Peru?"

"Nice try. We're calling you 'Mex.'"

"That's hardly original, Sarge," said Hernandez.

"We aren't paid to be original."

The last candidate was probably not far off Bucky's age, and his strawberry-blond hair had been coiffed to perfection. Bucky didn't wanna know where he'd got the oil to do that.

"Private Gilmore Hodge," the man offered, and anticipated the next question. "Born and bred in New York."

Bucky looked to Wells, who shrugged before answering.

"Fine. Hodge."

"I'm Sergeant Barnes," said Bucky, addressing all of them, "and this is Sergeant Wells. The grumpy old guy over there is Sergeant Weiss. If you need anything, come see one of us. Now, do you guys need anything in terms of gear?"

"Naw, the SSR kitted us out pretty well," said Mex.

Wells stepped forward, his gaze taking in all three. "Looks like we'll be marching soon, so we've no time right now for the ritual welcome paddling, but as soon as we make camp for the night, I expect you to paddle each other. Okay?"

"Uh… is he being serious?" Hernandez asked Bucky.

"One thing you will learn with your time in the 107th, is that I'm always serious, Mex," said Wells. His claim earned a round of snorts and guffaws from everyone in the regiment who was close enough to hear.

"What were you guys candidate for?" Bucky asked the newcomers.

"A very important project that we can't tell you anything about," Hodge replied, his face full of smug.

"Bullshit."

"It's true, Sarge," drawled Tex. "Before they'd let us leave, they made us sign non-disclosure agreements an' everything."

"Alright," said Wells, "then let's try something simpler. Who's the dame with Phillips?"

"That's Agent Carter," said Mex. "She's Phillips' XO."

"Is she married? Got a boyfriend?"

"No, but she's English."

"Even better," Wells grinned, and Bucky rolled his eyes. This was gonna end badly for his friend, he could feel it. Just like he'd felt Plymouth was gonna end badly.

"I gotta warn ya, Sarge," said Hodge, "if you're thinking of going after her, she was pretty sweet on me, back at the SSR base."

"Heh. Sweet on knocking your ass into the dirt, more like," Mex grinned. Hodge glared at him so coldly that it should'a froze him on the spot despite the summer heat.

"Tex, is that true?" Bucky asked.

The man nodded. "As God is my witness, I cannot lie."

"She was just hiding her real feelings for me," Hodge countered. "I could tell she liked me by the smoldering look she got in her eyes whenever she watched me training. And she watched me a lot, if you know what I'm sayin'."

"Wells, I owe you an apology," said Bucky, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Seems you don't have the biggest ego in the 107th after all."

"Damn, and I came so close."

"Don't worry, Wells," said Davies. He blew an air kiss. "You're still the prettiest."

"Oh, fuck you, Davies," Wells glowered.

Bucky grinned at the expressions on the new recruits' faces. It was the same wary, guarded expression he suspected he'd worn for those first couple of days at Last Stop, right before the madness started to set in.

"Welcome to the family, fellas," he told them. "I'm sure you'll feel right at home in no time."

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: Does France have wild horses? Google 'Camargue horse' to find out!_

 _In unrelated news, I randomly re-read one of my published chapters at work today, and was horrified to find no less than three typos. If you see any typos (or other heinous grammar crimes) in my writing, please do feel free to point them out, either in the Review box or by PM. I promise I won't be annoyed if you correct my spelling/point out my mistakes. In fact, I may even send cookies. It can be like a competition. At the end of the year, the person with the most cookies wins a COOKIE JAR, in which to keep their cookies._

 _(Disclaimer: Cookies may be virtual)_


	15. Over Troubled Water

We Were Soldiers

 _15\. Over Troubled Water_

The midday sun was harsh and relentless. For some reason, the march had stopped, and the troops had taken shelter in whatever shade they could find. For most it was beneath trees on the edge of the field, but Bucky and a group from the 107th had been lucky enough to halt near one of the tanks, and they sat in its shade, watching the shadows grow smaller as the burning orb approached its daily zenith. Wells had taken out his binoculars and was using them to peer ahead to the front of the column in an attempt to learn what had stopped the swift march.

"What's taking so long?" Carrot grumbled. "Why've we always gotta be waiting around for something?"

"Shit," said Wells.

"Swap," Bucky said, handing him one of the bland, calorie-rich biscuits from his ration kit in exchange for the binoculars. After a moment of peering through them, he saw what Wells had seen. "Shit."

"What is it?" asked Carrot. Bucky tossed him the binoculars and sank down, resting back against the tracked wheels of the tank. "I don't get it. So what? It's a bridge."

"It's a flimsy wooden bridge, Carrot," Bucky pointed out.

"So? We're light."

"But these aren't." Wells rapped his knuckles against the tank's tracks. "Neither's the plane, and I bet those jeeps are about three Biggs' weight."

"I don't wanna be a unit of measurement, Sarge," Biggs complained.

Bucky glanced over to where the three newest members of the 107th were sitting in the shade of a jeep. They'd been pretty quiet so far, mostly keeping to themselves. Was that because they were burdened with the secret of whatever program they'd been ordered not to talk about? Were they homesick? Did they feel left out of the camaraderie that had developed amongst the 107th over the past weeks? Or did they just look at their new regiment and think everyone in it was completely nuts?

"Carrot, I want you to make sure those three don't feel left out. Make 'em feel welcome," he said. Carrot was just about the friendliest guy in the 107th, and making friends out of the new men might give him something to do other than worry about the delays.

"Right, Sarge. I'll see if they wanna play poker while we wait."

Carrot was up and gone before Bucky could suggest something less challenging for him to play. But what the hell, maybe beating Carrot at poker really would make the new guys feel more at home.

Half an hour later, an order was passed back from the front of the line; all infantry were to advance across the bridge and wait in the wooded area, on the other side of the river. By now, the shadows were almost non-existent, and Bucky wished sunscreen had been included in the ration kits. What use were cigarettes when he didn't smoke, or chocolate that was so tough it could barely be chewed? Sunscreen lotion would have been far more useful than either of those. The troops in Africa probably got sunscreen; did the brass think the sun didn't shine in France?

They picked up all their gear and followed the 69th across the field, towards the rickety bridge. Behind them came the support troops along with the thirty or so members of the 9th Infantry assigned to the SSR, and the 370th brought up the rear, carrying various long, heavy loads between them. At the bridge, the sound of footsteps created a constant wooden echo, and as he stepped out onto it he looked over edge, at the River Rhône flowing some twenty metres below. It was a lazy stream compared to the Hudson back home, but right now, with the other end of the bridge a hundred metres away, it was wide enough.

"Doesn't look very… what's the word… potable, does it, Sarge?" Franklin asked, following his gaze.

"That's what your halozone tablets are for, Franklin."

"Yeah, but halozone won't take the mud out."

The bridge wasn't as bad as Bucky had feared. Though its support beams were predominantly wood, a loose stone-chipped road had been laid over it, which gave it a pretty solid feel. Solid enough for a hundred soldiers to cross at a time, but he still had misgivings about those tanks. Obviously the engineers did, too, or there wouldn't have been such a delay.

When they finally made the other side, they marched uphill to where a small wooded area overlooked the bridge. _If I were Germans, I_ _'d be hiding in those trees, watching the bridge, ready to ambush anyone coming over it_ , he thought. Maybe the Germans hadn't expected a swamp landing to be possible. Bucky had no idea how Phillips had got so many tanks, jeeps and a plane this far, but clearly, the man was resourceful. Or maybe Stark was resourceful. It probably amounted to the same.

At the trees, they unloaded their equipment and sank down again. Nobody had to tell them this mission was gonna involve a lot of marching; they could instinctively feel it, like swallows feeling the change of the season and prepping for their long migrations. Bucky had already decided to make the most of every single rest stop he got, and he wasn't alone in his line of thinking. All around him, men were making themselves comfortable, bringing out food and water, and a game or two of dice sprang up. The 370th, Bucky noted, did not seem to be having the same issues with sunburn as he and his friends. In fact, the dark-skinned men of the 370th sat on the edges of the forest, and seemed to be enjoying the stupid hot sun.

Finally, the long trail of people flooding into the area stopped, and for the first time since they'd set out from Phillips' camp, Bucky realised their numbers had swollen to over eight-hundred personnel. The olive drab uniforms of the soldiers were peppered here and there with the white of medics' robes. A handful of nurses were amongst the medical staff, and their uniforms brought thoughts of Sarah Rogers to mind. Steve's mom had made helping others her life, and now these women were risking their own lives to do the same. They were out here, marching just as long and hard as the soldiers, burdened with their own heavy medical loads, but he was willing to bet his last dollar that none of them knew how to fire a gun in defence of their lives. The soldiers, at least, had a means to protect themselves.

 _Perhaps it_ _'s easy to be brave, when you have a gun to hide behind. How much braver does a person have to be to come here_ without _a gun? I_ _'m not sure I could do it._

"This oughta be good," said Wells. He had his binoculars out again, and was watching the bridge. Bucky pulled his out, and soon a good number of the troops were tuning in to the entertainment on the far side of the field.

"I'm running a betting pool on how many vehicles make it across before it collapses," said Davies. "Anybody want in? Entry's a dollar."

"It seems kinda macabre, betting on how many vehicles we might lose crossing a river, don't you think?" Bucky said.

"Put me down for all of the jeeps and one of the tanks. I think the other tanks and the plane are gonna get stuck on the other side," said Wells.

"A half dozen jeeps at most," Gusty challenged. "I swear I could feel that thing swaying when we were walking across it, and jeeps have more weight in a smaller area than people do."

"What do we get if we win?" asked Carrot.

"Bragging rights," said Davies. He checked his inside pockets. "And a pack of smokes."

"In that case, I think they'll all make it across," Carrot said happily.

"You are one optimistic S.O.B., Carrot," said Wells.

Carrot gave him a quick north-south. "Yup!"

"Ah reckon it'll fall at the first tank," said Tex. "Germans gotta know that bridge ain't supporting any heavy artillery, or they'd have it rigged with explosives or somethin'. That's what Ah'd do, anyway."

"I think the plane's gonna break it," Mex added. "The plane, and whatever tries to drag it over."

"Barnes?" said Davies. He had a noteped in one hand, his pen poised in the other. "Last chance to get a bet in."

"Alright, put me down for everything getting across as well."

"Okay, let's see how far wishful thinking gets you."

There was movement below. The first of the jeeps appeared, moving tentatively forward and towing one of the howitzers behind it. Bucky had to admire the driver's nerves; in his place, he would've put his foot down and gotten across that bridge as fast as possible. But the guy behind the wheel kept it at a steady twenty miles per hour, until it reached the other side, then he turned it to wait for the others. And when the driver opened the door and stepped out, Bucky nearly dropped his binoculars in surprise; it was none other than Agent Carter, completely unperturbed at having driven a jeep over a bridge of questionable French construction.

"That broad's got stones," said Davies.

Another nine jeeps came across the bridge, one by one, their drivers keeping to the same pace Carter had set. Bucky wondered whether they did that because they knew it was a sound plan, or because they didn't want to be outdone by a woman. Phillips was one hell of a strategist, if he'd brought her along for that. Bucky's sister, and hundreds like her, were showing the world that they could work just as hard as any man in those shipyards, and here Agent Carter was showing a bunch of GIs how tough women could be under pressure.

"I think I may have to marry that woman," said Wells. Bucky's friend didn't appear to be watching the jeeps coming across the bridge anymore. He doubted whether Wells even remembered there was a bet on.

"What happened to Rita?" he asked.

"She's a whole world away, pal."

"Eh, Rita's alright," said Gusty, "but Agent Carter? You guys are crazy. I like my women to be… well… womanly. And there's nothing womanly about a dame in a uniform driving jeeps and fighting on the front lines."

"If we had more dames wearing uniforms and fighting on the front lines, maybe you wouldn't have to be here, Gusty," Wells pointed out.

"I didn't say I was _against it_ , per se, Sarge. Just that dames like that aren't for me."

"I wouldn't wanna see my mamá in a uniform and fighting on the front lines," Mex said, shivering at the thought. "I mean, the damage she can do with a wooden cooking spoon alone… when I think of her with a rifle in her hands, I would actually feel sorry for anyone who crossed her."

"There's more movement down there," Bucky said, as he spied something coming onto the bridge. "Looks like two jeeps. I wonder why they're doing two at once."

The reason quickly became obvious. It seemed the engineers didn't like the idea of a heavy, armoured tank pulling the plane across the bridge, so they'd gone for two of the lighter jeeps instead. Only problem was, the plane and the wagon were pretty heavy, and the jeeps weren't designed for heavy towing. They crawled along at a snail's pace, and as they reached the midway point, the bridge began to sway from side to side. Bucky didn't mind losing his dollar or missing out on the pack of smokes, but he sent a silent prayer to heaven for whichever poor souls were driving those jeeps.

By some miracle, the small convoy made it across with the bridge intact. Bucky's mouth was dry as the first of the tanks appeared, and he briefly wondered how deep the Rhône was, how long it would take a tank to sink, and how slowly the men inside it would drown if that happened.

"Kinda makes me glad to be infantry," said Wells. "I mean, sure, sitting in an armoured mobile fortress sounds good on paper, but what happens if you fall into a river, or take a direct hit, or drive over a mine? Imagine sitting in one of those things when it's consumed in a fireball. You'd literally be cooked alive."

"I prefer not to imagine that," said Tipper, looking kinda green around the gills.

"I think I'm gonna go take a walk," said Hawkins. He sprang up and made his way to the other side of the camp.

Bucky watched him go, a pang of regret tearing through his chest. "Hawkins' brother was part of a tank crew."

"Shit. I should'a remembered that," said Wells. "Want me to go after him?"

"No, give him some space. He'll come back when he's ready.

"Alright. It's probably best he doesn't watch this, anyway. Looks like the first of the tanks is about to make the attempt."

Bucky didn't particularly want to watch it either. At this distance, the tank looked like a child's toy. But that made the bridge look like it was constructed of matchsticks. If it had swayed badly beneath the weight of the plane, it was even worse beneath the tank. Burning bile rose from Bucky's stomach, and he thought the tension might make him sick. Looking at the faces around him, he discovered he wasn't the only one looking ill. Even Davies seemed to be regretting his betting pool.

As the first tank made it across the bridge, a collective sigh erupted from the troops beneath the trees. Wells lowered his binoculars for a moment to glance at Bucky.

"Pack of smokes or not, I kinda hope you and Carrot win this one."

"If I win this one, you can have the smokes."

"Maybe you should give 'em to whichever nutjobs are driving those tanks."

"That's not a bad idea."

The second tank inched out onto the bridge. The bridge swayed, wobbling like a house of cards ready to topple at the slightest breeze. Somehow, the second tank reached the bank, and there was no sigh of relief from the gathered troops this time, but a loud cheer. Every man and woman on that hill saw themselves in the driver's seat of those tanks. Each safe tank wasn't a victory for the tank drivers; it was a victory for all of them. For America itself.

The third tank began its crossing. Maybe the driver was less careful than the last two, maybe he was overconfident and pushed the speed too fast, or maybe the bridge had finally taken too much punishment. The first sign the men on the hill had that something was wrong, was a loud, creaking groan of splintering iron and wood. The bridge swayed to one side, and buckled, dropping the tank into the river. Gasps and groans issued from everyone beneath the trees, but nobody moved. The engineers were already down there, and soldiers would only get in the way.

"Stark!" growled Phillips, from further down the hill.

"If you'd waited three months, I could have given you the schematics for a fully amphibious tank, Colonel," Stark said quickly.

"And another three months to have them built! Schmidt isn't going to give us that sort of time to sit around twiddling our thumbs. Now get down there with those engineers and find a way to get my tank out of that river."

"Who the hell's Schmidt?" Wells mused aloud. "I thought we were fighting Hitler?"

"Probably some Nazi general in charge of this area," said Gusty.

Bucky put all thoughts of Nazis out of mind as he watched the action below. Though the tank had been ditched into the river, whoever was driving it hadn't given up. Even as it took on water, it moved slowly forward, its tracked wheels generating small amounts of power to give it momentum. Unfortunately, the tank was perpendicular to the current, and slowly being pushed downriver. Eventually, if it didn't catch on any obstruction, it would reach the river mouth and be dumped in the Med.

Howard Stark's voice was loud enough to carry across the field to the ears of the watching troops.

"We have cables for towing," Stark was saying. "We need a couple of engineers to swim out and fasten one end of the cable to the tank's tow hook, and we can pull it out using these other two tanks."

A pair of engineers scrambled, shedding their outer clothes and boots and racing towards the water carrying cables before the tank could be washed completely out of range. The two tanks on the near side of the river followed slowly downstream, giving the swimmers the slack they needed to reach the vehicle stranded midway.

They all watched, tense, as the swimmers took a dive and disappeared for almost a minute. When they resurfaced, they gave the 'OK' sign and swam clear of the drifting tank. Immediately, the two tanks on the shore began moving uphill, slowly enough that the vehicle in the water wasn't flipped over onto its side. As the tank was brought closer to the shore, it began to emerge from the water, rising with the slope of the river bed. Water poured liberally from it, and Bucky felt his heart dip down into his stomach. How could the driver possibly have survived that much water? And why hadn't he bailed out when the tank became impossible to drive?

As soon as the waterlogged tank was on the river bank, the engineers were all over it. One of them lifted the hatch, and a very sodden driver climbed shakily out, waving to show he wasn't hurt. Bucky sank down onto his duffel bag and heaved a heavy sigh of relief. They'd almost had their first casualty of war, and so far not a single shot had been fired. He'd always heard Europe was an easier fight than the Pacific, but it wasn't the walk in the park he'd been expecting.

Once it was certain the driver was unharmed, and the engineers had turned their attention to trying to save the tank from water damage, the focus was turned to the lone tank on the opposite bank. Phillips, Hawkswell and Stark were still close enough for Bucky to hear.

"Much as I hate to lose good equipment," Hawkswell said, "we should probably leave it there and torch it. The tow cables won't reach the full length of the river, and we can't risk another driver like that. We still have these two tanks; they can tow the recovered one to the next campsite, and maybe we can salvage it."

Phillips seemed to like that idea even less than the man who'd suggested it. He turned to Stark. "Any better ideas?"

"We don't have the time or manpower to build a bridge across a river this wide—not one that will support a tank, at least," said Stark. "But from what I recall of the maps I saw earlier, there's a Ferry crossing about a dozen miles downstream. Takes local cars across, I believe."

"A car ferry? For a tank?"

Stark offered a shrug. "Should hold, as long as there's nothing else on it. Of course, that brings up two more problems."

"We can't use the car ferry without encountering locals," Phillips sighed wearily. He looked to have aged ten years in the past hour, the lines in his face becoming even more weathered. Bucky couldn't blame him. _He_ felt like he'd been aged watching that bridge fiasco, too. "I didn't want our presence here to be known. No telling where German informants lie."

"Plus, a lone tank, without support or backup, is a sitting duck," Hawkswell added.

"Sir!" said Dancing. He'd been edging slowly closer to the officers throughout the conversation, and now he was positively bursting with anticipation. "I volunteer to lead a squad to meet the tank at the ferry and escort it to the new camp site."

"Shit," Wells swore quietly.

Phillips studied Dancing long and hard. Nobody in their right mind volunteered for _anything_ in the army, but clearly Dancing, like Carrot, was not in his right mind. Bucky only realised how desperate Colonel Phillips was to keep that last tank when he gave a small nod.

"Alright. Take one of your sergeants, six of your men, and two of the jeeps. Stark, get your map out and show Lieutenant..?"

"Danzig, sir!"

Phillips winced. "Alright. Show Lieutenant Danzig here where that ferry cross is located, and where the next camp's going to be." He cupped his hands around his mouth and turned back to the scene at the bridge. "Carter!" he yelled. The woman turned. "Send two of those jeeps up here, then get the rest ready to move out."

"Tell you what," Wells said to Bucky, as Stark pulled a map from his pocket and began instructing the lieutenant, "I'll go with Dancing if you call it even on that two bucks I owe you for finding the SSR first yesterday."

"Done," Bucky grinned. And one of the easiest deals he'd ever made. No doubt his friend would be regretting his offer by the time they caught up with that tank.

Dancing finished with Stark and approached the men of the 107th who were clustered around Bucky, sheltering in the shade of the trees. Wells hauled himself to his feet—with some obvious reluctance, Bucky noted—and threw out a salute.

"Sir, I'm ready to accompany you on the mission."

"How very noble of you to volunteer, Sergeant Wells," said Dancing. There was a tone in his voice that might have been derision. "However, Sergeant Barnes will be accompanying me on this mission. You will continue with the rest of the men, to the next camp site. And just where is Sergeant Weiss?"

Half a dozen hands came up, pointing to a spot not far away. Weiss was lying on his back, head resting on his duffel and steel helmet set over his eyes. He seemed for all the world to be asleep, but Bucky wasn't so sure. Pretending to be asleep might be an awfully useful way of overhearing things that otherwise might not be overheard.

"Useless." Dancing gave a weary sigh and shook his head. "Utterly useless. No wonder nothing ever gets done around here. Barnes, grab your gear and pick six men to accompany us on the mission. Meet me over by those jeeps in five minutes, or I'm leaving without you."

This time, Dancing didn't even wait for a 'sir' or a salute. He strode over to one of the jeeps and took the driver's seat, the very picture of eager impatience. Of course, Dancing had _two_ colonels to impress now, not just one. His nose would probably be doubly brown, by the end of this mission.

"Sorry pal," said Wells. He gave Bucky a sympathetic pat on the back. "Looks like Dancing doesn't dare leave you behind while he's not here, what with you being the colonel's favourite and all."

"Y'know, I ought to pick you as one of the men to come with us just to spite you both," he told his friend. "Make you ride shotgun with him, too."

"You wouldn't do that. You're not a _complete_ bastard."

"Not yet," Bucky agreed. "But after an afternoon with Dancing, maybe I will be."

He glanced around at the troops, and everybody other than Carrot very pointedly didn't meet his eyes in case he picked them for the mission. The exception to that was Tipper, who sat straight-backed and even more eager than Dancing. He looked like some damn school kid sat at his desk, trying to get the teacher's attention. But Bucky wasn't ready to put the kid out there, not with an unknown number of German patrols between them and that ferry crossing.

"Carrot, you, Davies and Hodge take the jeep with Dancing," said Bucky at last. "Franklin, you're with me. You too, Tex." Private Robertson's line of reasoning about the bridge not taking weight had impressed him, mostly because it lined up with his own paranoia about Germans setting up traps and ambushes. "And Hawkins."

Tipper objected immediately. "But Sarge—"

"Not this time, Tipper. Stay with Wells."

"Aww."

"Try not to have too much fun," Wells told the group before they left, not quite able to hide the laughter in his eyes.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The road south to the ferry crossing was dusty and potholed. The jeep handled it just fine, but the deeper potholes caused the wheels to dip and the steering wheel to jerk to one side, so Bucky kept both hands firmly on it as he followed the first jeep down the road. In the backs of both vehicles, men kept a watch on the fields on either side of the road, alert for German patrols. The only thing they saw on that dusty journey, however, were cows.

"What's Texas like?" Bucky asked, and immediately regretted it when he got a mouthful of dust kicked up from the vehicle in front.

"Hot, dusty, and full of cows," said Tex. His eyes scanned the countryside around them as the wind tousled his hair and slowly deposited a thin layer of dust on his skin. "So it's kinda like France, I guess."

He grinned. Plymouth was like Wyoming, and France was like Texas. It seemed Americans were determined to find a little slice of home no matter where they went. So far, he hadn't found anywhere that was like New York… but maybe there _was_ nowhere like New York.

"What do your family do? Cattle ranching?"

"Naw, my dad's in oil. He says oil's the future, that it's gonna make America the richest country in the world."

"You got any brothers and sisters?"

"Yeah, a brother. Johnny. He's followin' in my grandpa's footsteps. Gone off to do rodeo."

"Hey Sarge, look," said Franklin. He pointed over Bucky's shoulder to something further down the road. It turned out, in fact, to be the end of the road. It terminated in a short stone pier, on which sat a small, concrete building. The pier was empty, with no sign of the tank.

Dancing pulled over to to side of the road just short of the building and climbed out of the jeep. Bucky pulled over beside him, and gestured for the men to stay put and stay alert. All around were empty fields; if the tank was here, they should have seen it before now.

"Where the hell's our tank?" Dancing asked.

It sounded rhetorical. Bucky pulled out his binoculars and checked the other bank. There, he saw the tank. There was also a long, low ferry, sitting at the far pier. A man was standing in front of it, blocking the tank's path.

"It's still on the other side." He handed the binoculars over so Dancing could see for himself. "They're probably afraid the tank is too heavy for the ferry."

At that moment, another man appeared, this time on their side of the river. Clad in a pair of dusty brown pants and a sweat-stained white shirt, he stepped out of the small building and issued a rapid stream of French whilst gesticulating at the far bank.

"The tank isn't too heavy," Dancing told the man. "One of the allegedly smartest men in America says it will be fine."

"Passage à travers la rivière est de cinq francs," the man replied.

"Barnes, what is he saying?"

Bucky offered the lieutenant a shrug. "I dunno. You should've brought Wells; he speaks French. Sir." This, he suspected, was Dancing being visited by the Rule of Karma.

"Darnit!" Dancing turned back to the man, wearing the deepest scowl Bucky had ever seen on the guy. "Listen to me: we just want our tank. Send it over and we'll be on our way."

"Cinq francs, ou pas de passage."

"No, the ferry won't be sunk just because there's a tank on it. If you can take four cars, you can take a tank. Oh, I give up." Dancing threw his hands up in despair. "Barnes, you try."

What the hell did Dancing expect him to do? All Bucky knew of France was that it was like Texas, constantly in disdain of England, and currently occupied by Germans. Still, he gave it his best.

"Tank," he said, pointing to the opposite bank.

The man scowled at him. "Cinq francs."

A prickle of irritation swelled within him. _Sank fronk?_ What the hell did that even mean? This was all Dancing's fault. Why couldn't he just have accepted Wells' offer? Then Bucky could be back with the rest of the company, and Wells could be here sorting this mess out.

"For Christssake," somebody grumbled from behind. Davies jumped out of the jeep and approached with his hand in one of the inside pockets of his jacket. "Don't they teach you anything in officer school, Danzig? He obviously wants a bribe." He held out a couple of dollar bills in one hand, and a packet of smokes in the other.

Dancing stiffened, full of self-righteous superiority. "Just because _you_ partake in such low behaviour as bribery, Private, doesn't mean others—"

The man grabbed the packet of cigarettes and pocketed them before Dancing had even finished his sentence. He disappeared back into the concrete booth, and picked up a telephone, jabbering something fast and French into it. Bucky lifted his binoculars again, and this time he saw the guy who'd been impeding the tank's progress step aside and gesture it forward, directing it onto the ferry.

"Huh." _Bribe the locals. I_ _'ll have to remember that one._ "Good job, Davies."

"Somebody owes me a pack of smokes," the private grumbled.

Bribing the ferry operator was only half the job. The other half involved standing there watching as the tank was slowly loaded onto the ferry, and the ferry slowly made its way across the river. By the midway point, Bucky was a bundle of tightly leashed nerves. The ferry was _painfully_ slow, and it was also riding worryingly low in the water.

"This is taking too long," said Dancing.

He, too, was watching through binoculars. He chewed his bottom lip, and didn't seem to be aware he was doing it. Probably wanted to get to that new base camp and have the tank waiting for the colonels. That would certainly impress them. Glancing around, Bucky saw that Davies had gone back to the jeep, to keep a watch on the surrounding fields with the others. This seemed like a good opportunity to speak to Dancing as a person, rather than an officer.

"Sir," he began, because he suspected Dancing saw himself as an officer first and a person second, "can I ask you a question?"

"Very well."

"I know it's probably none of my business, but I wanna know… why's it so important for you to get promoted?"

Dancing shot him a sideways look, then resumed peering through his binoculars. "I see you've been speaking with Sergeant Weiss."

"Well, yeah. That's what we do. We talk to each other. Sir. And he mentioned you were gunning for a promotion. What he didn't say, was why."

"Because he doesn't know why. You were right; it's really none of his business, Barnes, and it's none of yours either."

"Yessir." Again, he felt a prickle of irritation stir within him. Technically, Dancing was within his right to tell him not a damn thing about himself. There was no rule saying that officers and enlisted men had to be buddies. But Bucky liked to know what made people tick. How they worked, how they thought, what they were likely to do in any given situation. He liked to know what the men around him were made of, and knowing what the man giving him orders was made of was just as important. He tried to press his point home.

"But you see, sir, I like to know what I'm fighting for. I'll always do my job to the best of my abilities, but if I can understand the purpose behind it, it helps me to understand it, and maybe look at finding better ways of doing it. Knowing that the guy giving me orders has some priority other than getting a bit more silver pinned on his chest, well, it helps me to understand where he's coming from, and that makes me better able to motivate the men to accomplish the mission. And I figure that's always a good thing."

A deep, tired sigh escaped Dancing's lips. When he lowered his binoculars and turned, an expression of defeat etched on his face, Bucky was reminded of how young Dancing actually was. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that beneath that pompous exterior was somebody two or three years his junior.

"Alright," Dancing agreed. "But this doesn't get back to anyone else."

"I understand, sir."

The lieutenant nodded, more to himself than to Bucky, it seemed. "I have a girl waiting for me back home. Rachel. We've been courting for nearly three years now, and last year I decided to ask for her hand. I did it the traditional way; by approaching her father. I'd met the man a few times, figured he wouldn't have any objections. But he'd served as an officer in the Army, during the Great War, and he had high expectations of the man who would marry his daughter. Hell, I don't think he cared much about her opinion, but he wanted a very specific type of person as a son-in-law. Told me that he wouldn't let anybody without at least the rank of Captain marry his daughter. So, I signed up. Enrolled for the officer training program. And here I am."

Not for the first time, Bucky felt warm gratitude towards his parents. He'd brought many girls home, over the years, and never once had his folks set some standard for them. They'd greeted each girl as if she was the only one Bucky had introduced them to, and welcomed each one as best they could, even if they didn't approve of his choices. They'd shown the same equanimity towards the few guys Mary-Ann had brought home, and the two or three young women Charlie had gone out with. He was lucky to have parents who were so accepting of their children's choices.

"Why don't you want anybody knowing that?" Bucky asked.

"Why don't I want men who signed up out of a sense of patriotism and desire to serve their country, to know that the only reason I'm here is to gain my future father-in-law's permission to marry his daughter, and that if it wasn't for that, I wouldn't be here at all? Gee, I don't know, Sergeant; why _don_ _'t_ I want anybody knowing that?"

"I think they'd understand, sir. We're all here for different reasons, and love is no less noble a reason than patriotism or duty."

"You may change your mind when men start dying," Dancing said darkly. "At any rate, my instruction stands. Weiss hears nothing of this. He'd probably call it a _'damn childish notion_ ' and advise me to _'grow a pair and be a man by telling her father where to stick his permission.'_ "

Bucky couldn't help but smile. That sounded exactly like the sort of thing Weiss would come out with. Maybe that was, deep down, part of the reason for their clash. Weiss claimed he had children around Dancing's age; did Dancing see his future father-in-law every time he looked at Weiss?

"I won't even mention your name to Sergeant Weiss," Bucky agreed.

"And no gossipping about my personal business with Sergeant Wells, either. Don't think I haven't noticed you two as thick as thieves."

"I promise I won't tell anybody, sir."

"Hmph." Dancing turned back to the river, to watch the ferry's progress. It was now so close that binoculars weren't needed. "Go tell the men to turn the jeeps around and prepare to leave. That tank's almost here, and I don't want to waste a moment getting to the camp site."

"Sir."

He left Dancing to his watching with a shake of his head. It was a real pity the guy didn't want anyone to know his story. He got the feeling that they'd be more inclined to give Dancing an easier time if they knew he was motivated by something which most of them had probably felt at some point in their lives. Instead, they saw only what Weiss had told them; a man who wanted ribbons on his chest, silver on his sleeve, and the authority to do whatever the hell he pleased. And really, who wanted to be led by a man like that?


	16. Target Practise

We Were Soldiers

 _16\. Target Practise_

The journey back to camp wasn't the swift race Bucky had been expecting. The tank did alright on the dusty road—it did better than the jeeps, in fact, because its wide tracks meant no wheels to fall into potholes—but as soon as they left the road, the tank lost about a third of its speed. Bucky, who'd been hanging back behind it on the road to avoid the huge cloud of dust it tossed up, had to shift down a gear so that he didn't overtake across fields. And Dancing, who was leading in his jeep, was forced to slow so that he didn't leave the rest of the small convoy behind.

It was later afternoon before they reached their destination. Bucky wanted nothing more than to crawl into whatever tent had been set up as a temporary barracks, and lie in the dark for a few hours. The steel helmets afforded no real facial screen, because that would have compromised a soldier's field of vision. As a result, the uncompromising Mediterranean sun had found them all, burning them on their cheeks and noses.

Sadly, a lie down in a dark tent wasn't to be. The camp was in disarray. The colonel's command tent had been raised, along with the medical tent and a couple of other structures, but the tents which were to house the troops were still in the process of being erected. As soon as they pulled up by the other vehicles, Dancing jumped out of his jeep.

"I'm going to inform the colonel of our return. Help the rest of the men assemble the tents."

He was off immediately, no doubt to see whether the success of recovering the tank would lead to an immediate promotion. Bucky shook his head. The guy had no idea about how to lead.

He turned to the team, who were just as dust-covered and sunburned as he. "Good work," he told them. "Take five, get a drink of water, then find something to do. If you're not busy, at least look it, or someone might assign you to something less pleasant than putting up tents."

They found the 107th on the edge of the camp, busy putting up the tents which were to be their home for the next few hours. A pang of guilt gnawed at Bucky when he realised these tents, and all the others, were probably the large items of equipment that the 370th had carried from the last camp site. Heavy tents, on top of their own gear. It didn't seem fair. He decided, then, that the 107th would carry their own tents tomorrow.

The summer sun had been no less harsh on the men who'd been forced to walk rather than ride in a jeep. If anything, it had been _more_ harsh; they were all red-faced and sweating, and if the sky didn't cloud over soon, it was only gonna get worse. He greeted a few of the men and offered encouraging words as he passed by with his his team of intrepid jeep riders, and found Wells assembling a series of poles, which Carrot and a couple of the others were inserting into the tent's rigid sleeves.

"Don't s'pose you found a pub along the way, and picked us up some nice, cold beers?" Wells asked. He used the shoulder of his jacket to wipe his forehead before sweat could trickle down into his eyes, then winced as the rough jacket material rubbed against his sunburned skin.

"Sorry, all we found was a tank."

"Pity." He tossed another pole to Carrot, then flashed Bucky a grin. "After dinner, Phillips is holding a friendly inter-regiment competition to find the best marksmen. I entered you in it in your absence."

"Me? Why?"

"Well, you're good at darts, and good at baseball, so I figure you must be a good shot with a gun, too."

"One of these days, you volunteering me for stuff is gonna get me in trouble."

"One of these days, maybe. But not today."

"Alright," he agreed. A little competition might be fun. He generally did well at whatever he put his mind to, but he always did better when he had someone to challenge him. "Who else is in it?"

"Dunno." Wells stood up and dusted his hands off against his pants. It only made them dirtier. "Phillips only wanted five entrants from each regiment. Weiss has put one of his guys forward… Private Hall. Do you know him?" Bucky shook his head. "Anyway, you and Hall makes two. I figured we'd see who else wants to sign up."

"I'm the best marksman around," said Hodge. He strode forward with his chest all puffed up. "I never miss anything I aim for."

"Except Agent Carter," Mex reminded him with a snicker.

"Stuff it, Hernandez, that's a work in progress," Hodge shot back. "Just sign me up, Sarge, and I'll win that competition for the 107th."

"Ah wouldn't mind giving it a try," drawled Tex. "My grandpa says Ah'm a pretty good shot. He used to take me huntin', back before he lost his leg in the rodeo."

"What'd you hunt?" Wells asked him.

"Anything that moved."

"That'll do, I guess," Bucky said. "You two help the guys finish putting this tent up, and I'll tell Phillips you're in the contest." As the two privates jumped to work, he turned to his friend. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Don't you wanna enter the competition too?"

Wells offered a noncommittal shrug. "Nah. I'm as good a shot as the next guy, but I'm nothing special. Now, if it were a darts competition, I'd be there and kick your ass," he grinned.

"In your dre—"

"Ah, Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Wells," said Dancing. He appeared looking like the cat who'd got the cream… and then discovered the proverbial fly in his cream, when he looked at Bucky and Wells. Probably got high praise for playing fetch with a tank. Probably didn't mention how Davies was the one who'd figured out how to bribe the ferry operator. "Why is it that whenever I see the two of you, you're always standing around doing nothing but talking? In case you hadn't noticed, this is the army, not a ladies' tea circle. Now, Colonel Hawkswell wants two foxholes dug on this side of the camp, and he wants it done an hour ago. You'll man them tonight in two-man teams, and no napping on the job."

Dancing turned and left. Wells pulled out his entrenching tool and fit the blade into the handle, gripping it tightly. "Do you think anybody would miss Lieutenant Brown-Nose tomorrow, if we buried him in a shallow foxhole grave tonight?" He shot a look of pure hatred at the departing lieutenant's back.

Bucky didn't have the energy left in him to try to cheer his friend up. He was tired, dusty, sunburned, and now he was gonna have to dig a trench and stay up all night on top of that. "Who do you want in your foxhole?" he asked, unable to stop the weary sigh that followed.

"Agent Carter."

" _Realistically_ who do you want in your foxhole?"

"Ugh. I hate reality. Gimme Franklin, I guess. He's probably one of the least annoying to sit in a hole with for six hours."

"I'll take Carrot, then." He pulled out his own entrenching tool, and wished that he had something bigger to dig with. "Let's get started."

Digging a hole in the ground large enough for two men to crouch in would have been difficult at the best of times. Now, with the ground baked hard by the midday sun, and with shovels too short to allow them to be held in the hands and driven into the ground with a foot, it was an even bigger challenge. Five minutes into his hole, and Bucky was streaming with sweat and his lungs felt like they were on fire. There was simply no cool air to be had.

Thankfully, the cavalry arrived. A group from the 107th finished putting up the tents and joined in the digging, and before too long they had two fully serviceable foxholes spaced twenty-five metres apart. After the frenzy of digging was over, they all sank down to catch their breath. Lieutenant Nestor found them recovering there a moment later.

"Um, Sergeants, there's a, um, small river some forty metres north-west of the camp. You should all go get washed up and cooled down. It's not a good idea to work so hard without a break in this heat; you might get heat stroke, you know."

"That man's a genius," Bucky said drily. "But a soak in a river sounds like heaven right now. C'mon you lot, you heard the man; let's take a break."

It wasn't much of a river, not compared to the Rhône, but its water looked crystal clear, and it had a rocky bed, rather than a silty one. They'd collected more of the 107th along the way, and some forty men advanced to the stony bank and began stripping down to their underwear. Bucky took off his tags and placed them on top of his pile of clothes, so he could find them again afterwards. Then, he stepped into the water.

At first it took his breath away, but as he slowly waded out, to his calves, then his knees, then to the middle of the river where it came just over waist height, he realised the water wasn't really all that cold; it was his body that was too hot. He splashed water over his face, and _god it felt so good!_ His burning skin felt like it was sizzling where the cool water touched it, and all around he heard similar gasps of relief as more of the regiment waded out to clean up and soothe their aches.

"C'mon, Tipper," Carrot called. "It's not very deep; even I can't drown in this."

Bucky looked to the bank, and saw Tipper standing there, his scrawny body shivering at the sight of the water.

Tipper's head shook violently from side to side. "I've heard stories," he called back, "of these little fish things that live in rivers and can swim up your johnson and get stuck there using these hook things that they have."

"That's South America, Tipper," said Wells. Bucky wondered if his friend was bullshitting again; he'd never even _heard_ of anything that could swim up your johnson and get stuck there. "You're even safer from those fish over here than you were back home."

"You can't forego bathing forever, Tipper," Bucky pointed out. "Get in here."

"I dunno, Sarge—"

He didn't get chance to finish, because Wells splashed a load of water right at him, and as Tipper stood there looking shocked, everyone else joined in, until the young private was dripping wet and finally gave up resisting. He waded into the river, but that only meant the men who'd focused on Tipper now had to find somebody else to splash. Davies started it; he aimed a huge splash at Wells, but Wells ducked aside and Bucky got it instead. Even as he spluttered on the unanticipated river water, he was splashing back, and soon the whole river was a roiling, churning mass of flying water and falling bodies as men lost their footing on the stony bed.

"What the hell's going on here?!" a shrill voice demanded.

Everybody stopped. The laughter and jeering and sound of splashing water died away. Lieutenant Danzig was on the bank, hands on his hips, scowling his displeasure down onto the men in the river.

"You're supposed to be getting cleaned up, not having a pool party! Are you children, or are you men?"

 _Wrong answer,_ Bucky groaned. _They really are just big goddamn kids._

He didn't have to look at the faces around him to know what was coming next. He could _sense_ it in the air, a sort of malevolent haze underpinned by the sweet taste of revenge. There was nothing he could have done to stop it, and frankly, he didn't care to. The men had been tried hard, these past three weeks. They'd been on a long, boring, nausea-inducing sea journey, then been tortured with laps and drill at an ungodly hour of the morning, had to endure warm beer in England, and now they were in a foreign country occupied by a dangerous enemy, far from home. This was the first real reprieve they'd had in a weeks. A chance to unwind, and relax, and enjoy themselves away from the prying eyes of their superiors. And now Dancing was trying to take that away from them.

He had no idea who made the first splash, because within a heartbeat, everybody was making waves which came crashing over Dancing in a veritable deluge. Coughing, spluttering, clearly too shocked to chew them all out, Dancing retreated back to camp, waddling damply all the way. A victorious cheer arose from the river.

"I suspect we'll all pay for that with laps, at some point," Wells said. "But damn, it was worth it."

"Yeah." He aimed a splash at Wells, who closed his eyes and bore it better than Dancing had. "What time's that competition thing starting, anyway?"

"Dunno. After dinner, whenever that is. I guess we'll smell it cooking. I spoke to one of the mess staff; they said we're having some sort of stew and bread."

"It's probably spam stew."

"Probably. But it's better than grits."

 _Better than grits._ That wasn't hard. Anything that wasn't grits automatically qualified for _better than grits._ Ah well; spam stew or spam in a can. Right now, he didn't care. Soon he'd have to spend a night keeping watch in a foxhole, but for the moment he had a whole river of blessedly cool water to enjoy, and he was going to make the most of every minute of it.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Colonel Phillips' instructions had been very clear. A maximum of five entrants from each regiment, carrying only their sidearms. Everybody was free to watch, but only the official entrants could step beyond the participation line.

When Bucky stepped beyond that line with Tex, Hodge, Hall and another of Weiss' guys by the name of Baker, he discovered Phillips hadn't been idle whilst the rest of the company set up camp. A makeshift target range had been organised, with paper targets pinned to nearby tree trunks at varying heights and distances. Phillips wasn't the only one present. Stark was standing off to one side, scribbling things down in a small notepad. Maybe he was working on improvements to that flying car Bucky had seen at the Expo in New York… or maybe he'd given that up for something more useful to the army.

Hawkswell was beside Stark, a silent observer to the proceedings, and a sergeant he didn't recognise was next to him, but it was the fifth person who drew Bucky's attention. Who drew the attention of most of the entrants, actually. Agent Carter was standing behind Phillips, still wearing the uniform that Bucky now knew probably belonged to some British division, and up close, she was even more stunning than he'd realised. As soon as this contest was over, he'd need to find some way to talk to her before Wells really did get there first.

Almost all of the company had turned out to watch the competition. Damn near eight-hundred men were clustered to one side of the target range, and quite a lot had climbed the tanks and jeeps to get a better view over the crowd. Bucky's friends had managed to get themselves to the front of the audience, and Carrot and Tipper waved excitedly whenever he glanced over to them.

One group was conspicuously absent from the mass of olive drab army uniforms and the smattering of white medic uniforms. Bucky hadn't seen anything of those German soldiers since he'd left on the mission with Dancing. Wherever Phillips was keeping them, it was certainly somewhere well out of sight.

"For those who don't know me," Colonel Phillips called out, his voice carrying not just to the contest's participants, but also to the audience, "I am Colonel Chester Phillips, commanding officer of the Strategic Scientific Reserve, to which you are all currently attached. The SSR's primary mission is highly classified. Suffice it to say that our objective is to undermine Hitler's scientific operations through new and experimental strategies.

"Agent Carter here is responsible for seeing that my orders are obeyed in a timely fashion, and to ensure smooth running of this camp regardless of whether we're on the move. I'm sure most of you will recognise Howard Stark—" Stark looked up and offered a brief, distracted wave before returning to his work, "—who is the SSR's lead scientist. Mr. Stark is here to field test several of his designs before they are approved for general use."

 _Field testing?_ Surely there were safer fields for Stark to test his designs on.

"As you probably already know, I'm holding this competition today to find the best marksmen from each regiment. You will notice targets, in the form of a human shadow, have been set on trees. On these targets are a series of concentric circles which must be hit to earn points. The outer circle is worth ten, and that increases in increments of ten as the circles get smaller; the smallest circle, in the middle of the head, is worth fifty. Bullets which hit outside the body area are worth the same as Hitler's chances of winning this war; exactly zero."

A loud round of laughter erupted from the crowd, and a couple of men clapped. Phillips stepped aside, and Agent Carter stepped forward, loading a clip into her sidearm as the colonel continued.

"Agent Carter will be setting a base score. To qualify for winning this contest, her score has to be beaten. It doesn't matter how high a soldier scores in relation to his fellow competitors; if he can't beat Carter's score, he's out."

"This should be easy," Bucky heard Hodge whisper quietly to Tex.

But he wasn't so sure he agreed with Hodge's assessment. If Carter was Phillips' XO, she had to be pretty competent at her job, and so far she'd proven herself to be fearless, too. He was pretty sure Phillips wouldn't bring someone to the front lines if they were gonna be a liability, which meant Agent Carter had probably been through the same training as every other soldier there, including the officers. If she shot a pistol as effortlessly as she drove a jeep towing a howitzer across a rickety bridge, he didn't fancy his chances of winning this competition. And it was only when Carter stepped forward to take aim on the first target that he even thought to wonder _why_ Phillips wanted to find the best marksmen.

 _Bang._

Carter's first shot hit the nearest target dead centre of the smallest circle, immediately earning her fifty points. The smile of smug superiority melted from Hodge's face.

 _Bang._

Another fifty points. Agent Carter merely re-aimed and pulled the trigger again. No hesitation, no delay. Her face was calm, her gaze focused, and she ignored the heckling, the calls of _'Go on, darlin', show 'em how it's done!'_

 _Bang._

Fifty points.

 _Bang._

Forty.

 _Bang_.

Forty.

 _Bang._

 _Forty._

 _Bang._

 _Thirty._

 _Bang._

Thirty.

"Very good, Agent Carter," said Phillips, when the chamber of her gun was empty. Every bullet had hit. "I make that 330 points out of a possible 400."

 _330 points!_ Even hitting a forty on every target meant being ten points short, and if even one single shot missed scoring anything, almost every other shot would have to hit a fifty to make up the difference. And the worst thing was, he wasn't entirely sure that Agent Carter hadn't purposely aimed for a lower score than she was capable of just to give the competitors a slim chance of winning.

"Haven, put up new targets!" Phillips called. The sergeant standing beside Colonel Hawkswell dashed out to stick new targets over Carter's. Bucky guessed the guy must've been with the 9th, since he'd made a point of remembering the faces of the sergeants who'd come over with him from Plymouth. "Now." Phillips turned to the competitors from the three regiments who'd entered the contest. "You've seen the score you have to beat. The 69th will go first, followed by the 107th, and then the 370th. I can't imagine any of you should have any questions about shooting paper targets, but if you have any, ask them now. None? Good. Let's get started."

Out of the five members of the 69th, the only one Bucky recognised was Sergeant Dugan. The big man rolled his shoulders as a private stepped up to the firing line.

"Don't fancy my chances," Dugan said. "I always feel like I'm shooting with a toy, when I pick up a pistol. Put a shotgun in my hands, though, and I'll hit any target you point me at."

"Not at this distance you won't," Bucky said. All but two of the targets were outside a shotgun's range, and they weren't exactly the most accurate of weapons in the first place.

"You keep telling yourself that, Barnes. But unless you've got some sorta ace up your sleeve, this competition's ours, easy." Dugan clapped the shoulder of the man standing next to him. "Pfc. Armer here is a first class marksman. Ain't that right, Armer?"

"That's right, Sarge," the man grinned.

"You'll be eating those words for dinner when the 107th win," Hodge told him.

The banter continued as each of the 69th Infantry took their turns, scoring pretty decently. So far, only one had managed to beat Carter's score, and he'd only beaten it by ten. When Dugan's turn came, he sighed and stepped forward, and began picking off targets one by one. His gloomy prediction turned out to be correct; he scored 300. Not a bad score at all, but not quite good enough to put him in the runnings. Finally, Armer took his turn, and scored 360. A loud cheer erupted from the 69th members watching from the audience.

"Not bad," Bucky admitted. Their score would certainly give his regiment a run for their money.

"Alright, next up is the 107th," said Phillips. "Haven, put up more targets."

"Who wants to go first?" Bucky asked the other four with him. Tex shrugged, and the two Weiss had put forward didn't look particularly bothered. "Alright then, you can go first, Hodge. Then Baker, then me, then Tex, then Hall." Maybe going first would shut Hodge up. Every other word out of his mouth was a brag about how he was gonna get the highest score, and Bucky was starting to tire of hearing the same song. Of course, if Hodge really _did_ get the highest score, he'd have to listen to every other word about that, too.

"Don't worry, I'll get us started on the right foot," Hodge said, standing a little taller as he stepped towards the line.

Hodge took the same approach to shooting as Agent Carter had; point and shoot without hesitation. At first, it seemed to work for him; the closest two targets he hit, he scored fifties. But then his accuracy started to slip, so that he was getting forties and thirties, and on the furthest target, he scored a twenty, which took him to a grand total of 320. Despite the fact that he'd missed Carter's score by ten, he didn't seem disappointed.

"That last target moved slightly, just as I was firing," he said, holstering his spent pistol. "Otherwise I would've hit a forty for sure."

"Ah call bullshit," said Tex. "Trees is trees. They don't move."

"Sure they do, when the wind blows them."

"Hodge," Bucky said, "there's not even so much as a gentle breeze right now." He wished there was. The evening air was still stiflingly hot, and it was starting to get humid, too.

"It's deceptively windy over by those trees."

"There there, Hodge," said Tex. He gave the guy a reassuring shoulder pat. "It doesn't matter that you're not quite good enough." A grin pulled at his lips. "Again."

"Guess that makes two of us, then. I'm not the only one who washed out of the Project," Hodge scowled back.

Bucky shook his head. Why'd Hodge have to take everything so personal? "Shh," he instructed them, as Baker stepped forward. There was already enough heckling from the audience to contend with.

Baker didn't do too badly, but he only scored a total of 300. When Bucky stepped forward to take his place at the line, he suddenly felt the weight of everybody watching him. He was watched from behind, by his fellow participants. He was watched from the side, by the 107th, who cheered for him, and everybody else, who heckled him. And he was watched by Agent Carter, whose gaze seemed to burn right through his skull. Normally, he enjoyed being the centre of a dame's attention, but this dame had just scored higher on target practise than most soldiers were probably capable of, and she hadn't even broken a sweat doing it. He could feel her weighing him up with her eyes… and was struck by the strong desire to not be found wanting.

Lifting his Colt, he took aim at the first target. At ten paces, it wasn't exactly point blank range, but it was pretty damn close, and so far nobody had scored less than a forty on it. Bucky followed suit, and scored fifty. Then he scored fifty on the second, and the third. A decent start.

He knew he'd aimed badly on the fourth target even before his finger had finished squeezing the trigger. Sure enough, the bullet hit the twenty ring, and Bucky felt his forehead prickle with a sweat that had nothing to do with the evening heat. He'd just lost thirty points. He couldn't afford another mistake like that. On his next shot, he spent a little longer aiming, made sure he squeezed as gently as possible, and was rewarded with the bullet hitting the forty ring. He hit a forty again, and then another.

Before his last shot, he said a swift, silent prayer. The final target was the furthest away, and he had to hit a forty just to match the benchmark. He was no stranger to stress, and no stranger to competition, but he felt like he had the 107ths' reputation riding on this contest. Like if they could win something, the other regiments would quit their jokes and take the guys from New York a little more seriously. And, if he was entirely honest with himself, he wanted to impress Agent Carter. He wanted her to smile at him and congratulate him on beating her score.

Prayer over, he pulled the trigger, and time seemed to slow. He could feel every heartbeat—all one of them—that it took for the bullet to hit its target. And when it did, it hit a fifty. A cheer rose from the 107th, and Bucky let out the breath he'd been holding. He was through. At least the 107th were in with a chance of winning.

Then Tex stepped forward, and blew everybody's score out of the water. Bucky had no idea how the guy did it, but he scored 390, and only a 40 on the closest target stopped him from getting a perfect full score. Tex merely shrugged as he holstered his pistol.

"Ah always was far-sighted," he drawled.

Hall came next, and he scored one fifty and then seven solid forties, to match Carter's score. After a moment of deliberation, Phillips agreed that was enough to get through and the 107th cheered again.

"It'll be a shame if we lose now," said Baker, eyeing up the first of the 370th to step up to the firing line. As soon as Haven had finished putting targets up, the guy took aim and began firing. "I wonder what the final round will involve."

They didn't have to wait long to find out. Three of the 370th Infantry surpassed Carter's score, though none of them scored as highly as Tex. Once the round finished, Phillips beckoned the winners over.

"Stark, how many prizes have we got?"

 _Prizes_? Bucky felt one eyebrow climb up, and when he looked at Tex and Hall, he found similar expressions of surprise on their faces. He'd thought this was just a friendly competition; he hadn't seriously expected there to be any sort of reward for performing well.

"Only six, Colonel."

"Hmph. In that case, the two from each regiment with the highest scores can go with Agent Carter and Mr. Stark to be issued with prizes."

"This way, gentlemen," said Agent Carter. Her voice was rich and cultured, and he suddenly understood what Wells meant about English dames making his spine tingle. He could feel his spine tingling right the way down to his toes.

Bucky and Tex followed Carter, Stark and the rest of the competition winners into one of the large tents. A couple of engineers were busy working on one of the howitzers, but it was to a table that the pair led them, to a collection of metal boxes piled there. They all waited patiently whilst Stark opened up one of the boxes, and Agent Carter pulled something out of it.

It was a gun. A long, sleek looking gun that she held expertly, as if she'd been holding guns like that right out of the cradle.

"Welcome to a new era in long-distance tactical firing solutions," said Stark. He gestured to the rifle, and bestowed upon it the sort of loving smile that a guy might reserve for his firstborn child. "The Stark Sniper Rifle 01 model. This is the latest piece of kit designed by Stark Industries—that is to say, me—and you fellas have been selected for field testing. The SSR-01 sniper rifle combines traditional rifle design with all new technological advancements to provide greater accuracy and unparalleled stability. Using a traditional bolt-action mechanism—please show the guys the bolt-action mechanism, Agent Carter, thank you—the SSR-01 can fire up to eight rounds and hit targets a thousand yards away. Upper range limits have yet to be determined, but I suspect it will be close to a mile, with negligible loss of accuracy at that distance. Agent Carter will now demonstrate its use, if you'd care to step out the back."

Bucky found he cared very much to step out the back, and not just because it gave him a chance to step a little closer to Agent Carter. He wanted so badly to try that rifle for himself that right then, he would have agreed to _anything_. Of course, he hoped it was more reliable than that flying car…

"There's a target pinned to a tree, a thousand yards in that direction," Agent Carter said, gesturing to something off in the distance, past multiple tree trunks and bushes. "You'll each get a chance to try out your rifles, so don't worry that you can't see the target from here; once you get your eye on the scope, you'll see it easily enough. Now, Mr. Stark recommends the use of the rifle sling, to improve accuracy. He's also modified the stock so that it should sit more comfortably against the shoulder." She loaded a round into the rifle, and demonstrated sighting down it. "You should find that kickback is reduced considerably, thanks to many improvements which, if you're very unfortunate, Howard will explain in great detail."

"I just like people to appreciate my work, Peg," he grinned. "Now, fire the damn thing and then these guys can take their turns at telling me how amazing I am."

Agent Carter rolled her eyes and turned back to the target nobody but she could see. She lifted the rifle, took aim down the telescopic sight, and pulled the trigger. Bucky had prepared himself for the loud _bang_ which always accompanied gunfire, but instead there was only a quiet _crack_.

"Oh, I forgot to mention," said Stark, "I've included a flash suppressor and a silencer, and I've done so without compromising accuracy and adding only minimal weight. If you come with me, we'll get you kitted out with your guns, then you can see if you can hit the same target as Agent Carter. If you can, then there may be some hope for you as sharpshooters."

The weapon placed into Bucky's hands was lighter than his M1, and at least half as long again. It would be cumbersome to carry, but god, it felt like it had been made for him! When it came his turn to try it out, he lifted the gun and looked down the scope and immediately found the target Carter had mentioned. Clearly, Stark did a better job on his sniper rifles than he did his flying cars. He hit the target on his first shot, the weapon so responsive in his hands that it seemed to be reading his mind. Hopefully it didn't _actually_ do that.

Could Stark design guns which did that?

"Don't go getting any ideas about servicing these guns," said Stark, when they'd all taken a turn at trying out the weapons and caressed Stark's ego with lavish praise for a few minutes. "They're highly experimental and very complex. Eventually, everyone who uses them will be trained to service them, but for now, I want you to bring them back to me for routine service, maintenance and any faults which may arise—probably due to user error, I imagine. What I'm looking for most of all is feedback. How they perform in the field. Problems they might cause you. Any improvements you might suggest. After every mission you use the SSR-01 on, I want a performance review." He rubbed his hands together and smiled beneath his moustache. "So. Go have fun and kill stuff."

"Wait," Agent Carter said, stopping them all with one frosty word. She'd returned from somewhere and now carried a bunch of papers in her hands. "Under normal circumstances, sharpshooters undergo rigorous training in the use of their weapons. Since these _aren_ _'t_ normal circumstances, here are the U.S. and British Army manuals covering the use of long-range weapons. Please take particular note of the sections outlining cover and camouflage. Just because Howard has installed flash suppressors on these guns doesn't mean you won't be spotted. The enemy has snipers too, and if you shoot out of cover, you stand a good chance of coming back in a body-bag."

She thrust two manuals into each soldier's hands. Then turned back to Stark.

"Perhaps it would also be prudent to provide the men with ammunition?"

"Oh, right, of course. Guns need bullets. I knew there was something I was forgetting." He dashed into the tent and returned a moment later with six wooden boxes. "Don't go to the quartermaster for ammo, come to me. These are prototype weapons, and they use special ammo. You try to load standard army fare into it, and it's gonna jam up the firing mechanism. You don't feed your racehorse poor quality oats and expect it to finish a race in first place." He looked around at the soldiers' faces. "Okay, I guess most of you probably haven't owned racehorses, but you can take my word on that. Agent Carter, am I forgetting anything else?"

"No, I believe that just about covers it, Mr. Stark."

"Good, good." He nodded, and made a shoo'ing motion. "Remember, performance reports after every mission."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"This isn't just a weapon," said Wells half an hour later, as he sighted down the scope of Bucky's new rifle outside the regimental tent, "it's a work of art."

"I've always thought snipers to be overrated, personally," Hodge sniffed dismissively.

"Good job you didn't win the competition then, eh?" grinned Mex. He was hefting the gun Tex had been given, and he too glanced down the scope. "Nice! I think I can see my house from here."

"I mean, this is a finely crafted instrument of death," Wells continued, oblivious to the conversation of the others. "You shoot someone with this, and you're gonna see it as if you were stood in front of him."

"Yeah," Bucky agreed. That thought had crossed his mind, too. The thought that he was going to have to shoot people with it. To take lives. To end them. One moment, people would be living. Then Bucky would come along with the SSR-01, and those people wouldn't be living any longer. And at the end of the mission, he'd go back to base and report to Stark on how well his gun terminated human beings.

God, that sounded even worse.

As much as he wanted to speak his concerns and fears aloud, he couldn't. Pretty soon, they'd have to start going on missions. The men in his regiment needed to know they could count on him. They wouldn't be able to do their jobs if they were constantly worrying that their sergeant was battling his own conscience. That he was having second thoughts about everything. That he was having second thoughts _about his second thoughts_.

None of them, not a single one, seemed rattled by the thought of killing. Somehow, they all seemed to have justified it in their minds. Or maybe they just hadn't thought about it yet. Maybe they wouldn't think about it until after they'd taken their first life and killed their first man. Maybe then, they would feel how Bucky felt now. Maybe then he would look into their eyes and see his own unease echoed back.

"And you say Agent Carter was pretty handy with one of these?" asked Wells, giving back the gun now that everybody who wanted had got a good look at it.

"Very handy." He accepted the gun that he both loved and hated, and stored it away in its case.

"Hmm."

"I think she has something going on with Stark, though. They're on a first name basis and everything." Might as well burst his friend's bubble whilst it was still pretty small.

"Pft, what does he have that I don't?"

"Billions of dollars, several mansions, and unlimited genius? Something about racehorses, too."

"I don't think Agent Carter and Stark are like that, Sarge," said Mex. The private had quickly slipped into the role of camp gossip. His information might not always be as detailed as Davies', but he tended to get it faster. "Y'see, there was this guy back in the Project, and she seemed pretty sweet on him."

"What guy?" Wells scowled.

"A guy we can't talk about," Hodge said, rather hotly. "Right, Mex?"

"Oh. Yeah. Non-disclosures and all. Anyway, I haven't see him around here, so maybe the project failed, or maybe he died, or somethin'."

"In that case, someone else's loss is my gain. Tomorrow," said Wells, "I'm gonna make my move."

"If you're so confident," Hodge gloated, "why not make your move tonight?"

"Because tonight, Private, I have a date with Franklin in France's most swanky foxhole. Unless, of course, you'd like to trade places."

"Wouldn't dream of depriving you, Sarge," the private grinned.

"Then it's settled. Franklin, grab your stuff and let's go. I've got a feeling Dancing's gonna make a tour of the foxholes, just to make sure we're really suffering in there."

Wells grabbed his rifle, and Bucky reluctantly picked up his, too. He gestured for Carrot to join him, and they followed Franklin and Wells out into the night. A few weeks ago, he'd been excited to get his M1, and his Colt. It had made him feel like a proper soldier. And now, he felt like a proper soldier even more. Soon, the killing would start. And once it started, who knew when it would end?

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: For more information about fish which can allegedly swim up your johnson, please consult your friendly neighbourhood wikipedia on the subject of 'Candiru.' Is it true that basically anything is better than grits? No. We'll discover in a future chapter something much worse than that. The SSR-01 isn't the gun Bucky is seen using in CA:TFA, but it is an earlier version of it._

 _In case you_ _'re wondering, this story_ _ **does**_ _have a plot_ _… I just want Our Heroes to have a little fun before people start dying :-( And speaking of fun, for the next chapter my aims are to make you: 1) Laugh (or at least grin stupidly), 2) Love Bucky just a little bit more. I'll update again next Friday._


	17. Three Men

We Were Soldiers

 _17\. Three Men_

"Barnes. Sergeant Barnes. Wake up, Sergeant."

Bucky opened his eyes and made out the shape of somebody hovering above him, shaking his shoulder and whispering his name. It took him a moment to put a name to the voice, and when he did, he almost bolted upright out of bed.

"Lieutenant Danzig? What's going on?"

"The Colonel's got a mission for you, Sergeant," Dancing said, and he didn't sound happy about it one bit. "You're to report to the command tent on the double."

"Yessir."

As soon as Dancing left, Bucky scrambled for his uniform and tried to dress without waking the rest of the men. Wells would sleep through anything, but some of them were light sleepers, and they'd marched hard during the night. They deserved a rest.

When he stepped out of the tent, he squinted against the sunlight. It was midmorning, and the camp was mostly silent. For the past three days, they'd travelled at night and camped during the day, because neither of the colonels had liked the idea of crossing open fields in broad daylight. Not with the size of their company. Not with the tanks, which would be seen and heard a mile away. Not with the plane in tow.

He wasted no time making his way to the command tent, and since the sides were open, he walked right in. Colonel Hawkswell only stood on formality when Colonel Phillips wasn't around, and for the most part, it seemed Colonel Phillips was running the show. Today was no exception; Phillips was studying a map, whilst Hawkswell and Dancing looked on.

"Sir?" Bucky asked with a salute, as he stepped into the tent.

"Barnes. Good. I've got a mission for you." Phillips gestured down to the map. "Before tonight's over we'll be well into this forest, but the going will be slow once we get to the trees, and we don't have any recent aerial surveys of the area; foliage is too dense. The maps we do have are at least three years old, and I don't like going into that forest without more recent intel. I want you to take a couple of men and scout out as far as here," he said, indicating an escarpment. "If there are buildings, make note of them. Signs of civilisation, such as trees cut for firewood or trails through the undergrowth, write them down. And I need to know if any of the waterways have changed course since our maps were last updated. They're British intelligence maps, so they should be relatively up to date, but with winter run-off from the Alps, you never know. In particular, keep an eye open for anything that may impede the tanks."

"Yessir," he agreed. So much for a day in bed before another long march.

"And take that new gun with you, just in case. You're authorised to eliminate hostiles, but I'd prefer you avoid them unless that's impossible. Go fast, quiet, and on foot."

Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat. Until now, German troops had been remarkably absent, but he knew the company's good luck couldn't hold out forever. Sooner or later they would run into unfriendly troops, and Bucky would have to use that rifle.

"I understand, Colonel."

"Good. Be back before nightfall."

He threw up a salute and left, his mind working at a million miles an hour. Going on foot and being back by nightfall meant they'd have to move fast. That precluded Biggs from the mission; he was steady, but not particularly speedy. The need for stealth eliminated Mex and Hodge from being eligible, since he didn't think either could keep their mouths shut for very long. Mex was too fond of chattering, and Hodge too fond of the sound of his own voice. Besides, if there was even a _chance_ of running into Germans during this mission, he needed cool heads he could trust to watch his back. By the time he'd reached the regiment's tent, he'd already picked out two candidates.

"Gusty!" he hissed, as he ducked into the tent. The corporal was upright almost immediately, eyes wide as he scanned for danger. Experience had taught Bucky that although Gusty got nervous about even the _thought_ of doing something dangerous, as soon as any action started, he settled right into the moment. For Gusty, the worst thing was _anticipation_ of an event.

"Wassat?!" Gusty mumbled.

"You're coming on a mission with me. Get dressed and geared up, and meet me outside as soon as you're ready."

"Mmble."

Taking that as confirmation, he crouched down over Wells' bed and gave his friend's shoulder a sharp poke. "Wells. Wells. Oh for godssake, WELLS!"

With a tired groan, Wells finally opened his eyes. "I'm asleep."

"Well, now you're on a mission."

"I don't do missions on… days."

"Get dressed and meet me outside. We're on the clock on this one."

Whilst his friends dragged themselves out of their flimsy camp beds, he took his new rifle from its case and slung it over his shoulder. Then he checked his Colt, and stuffed some extra ammo into one of his belt pouches. He grabbed his backpack and canteen, then left the tent to find a water barrel to refill the flask from. Each time the company set up camp, filling the water barrels and treating them with halozone was a top priority. An army on the march needed a lot of water, and nobody wanted to risk drinking straight from the river any more than they had to.

Wells was the first to appear, pulling his jacket on and shouldering his M1. "Gusty's just getting re-dressed," he explained. "Managed to put nearly every item of clothing on backwards. He says he's no good at getting dressed in the dark when he's only had two hours' sleep. Can't say I blame him. What's the mission?"

"Recon."

"You woke me for recon?" Wells asked blearily. "Hell, what's wrong with Carrot, or Hawkins?"

"Nothing. I just thought you'd enjoy a leisurely stroll through the woods."

"Is there a bar at the end of these woods?"

"No."

"Then I can't imagine why you think I'd enjoy that."

Bucky said nothing. He could hardly admit that the thought of shooting people, the thought of taking lives, brought a cold sweat to his skin. That he needed somebody with him who, if necessary, would not be afraid to knock some sense into him. That Carrot, and Hawkins, and most of the others, were too nice to knock sense into their sergeant. That it wasn't their _responsibility_ to knock sense into their sergeant. That they weren't ruthlessly harsh enough to push him enough to kill. And that he didn't want them to become like that. Let them keep what innocence they had, while they still could.

He was saved from having to say anything by the arrival of Agent Carter. Or, more accurately, by Agent Carter passing by where they stood waiting for Gusty. Wells leapt at the opportunity, and Bucky was left feeling deep relief that he'd avoided one conversation he never wanted to have.

"Agent Carter," Wells said, stepping in front of her so that she had to stop. Bucky thought he saw irritation on her face, but if it was there, it was swiftly masked. "Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to introduce myself. Sergeant Danny Wells," he said, holding out his hand.

She pointedly ignored his hand. "Is there something I can help you with, Sergeant?"

"Actually, yes. I was wondering—"

"Eighteen," she interrupted.

"Huh?"

"That's how many misguided attempts at romantic overtures I've had to stamp out since your company was assigned to the SSR," she said frostily. "And do you know what I'm going to tell the next soldier who stops me to introduce himself?"

"I'm not sure I want to know that, now."

"Nineteen." _Ouch._ The woman was sharp. Bucky grinned. She reminded him of his sister, Mary-Ann. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"I was only gonna ask where you got your rifle training," Wells hurried on quickly, still determined to salvage what tattered shreds of dignity he could. "Sergeant Barnes here was telling me you're the best marksman he's ever seen."

"I was trained in the British Army," she said. "And now that your curiosity has been satisfied, Sergeant, you can either move aside, or I can move you. If you don't believe I'm capable or willing to do such a thing, perhaps you could speak to Private Hodge. I believe he's been assigned to your regiment now, hasn't he?"

"Not by choice," Wells assured her. He stepped aside, and Agent Carter continued on her way without another word. "Pleasure speaking to you, Agent Carter!" he called after her. He turned back to Bucky. "I thought that went well."

"I think she hates you," he said, the grin widening on his face.

"She hates those other eighteen guys. She just needs to get to know me."

"Riiight."

"Don't grin like that. I'm gonna marry her. Her, or Rita Hayworth. It's between the two of them. Then you'll be eating your words."

"Y'know, for a guy who claims he doesn't want to be settled with one dame, you sure do talk about it a lot," he pointed out.

Wells sighed. "Sometimes I forget that you listen when I talk. Talking to you is clearly bad for my health."

Gusty burst out of the tent, all pent-up, nervous energy. "Sorry, so sorry. You've not been waiting too long, have you?"

"Not at all," Bucky told him. "As a matter of fact, Wells was just providing me with with light entertainment while we waited for you. But now that you're here, let's get going. I'll take point. Wells, cover our six. We've got a lot of ground to cover before nightfall."

And hopefully he could get there and back again without having to use his rifle. Without having to go back to Stark and tell him how good his gun was at killing people.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

They travelled until midday beneath the burning sun, then stopped for a light lunch of foil-packed K-Ration biscuits, which were crunchy but filling enough to keep them going for another few hours. Bucky soon slung his rifle over his shoulder and let Gusty take point, so that he could continually cross-reference his map with the surrounding terrain. He made note of any changes or obstacles, but found there was very little the map hadn't already indicated. Then, as they resumed their march after lunch, he found himself feeling ill at ease and constantly on edge, and it took him a while to figure out why.

He didn't like the forest. It wasn't a proper forest, like the type he saw in his mind's eye whenever he thought of Robert Frost's poetry, or imagined the great forests of the Appalachian trail, which his father had walked a portion of with some guys from the boxing club, shortly after its completion. It wasn't a forest of dense, towering trees, of deep emerald green contrasting against azure skies and swirling white mists. Instead, it was a sparse, dusty brown forest of small, shrub-like trees such as olive and cypress, and other species he couldn't put names to; little trees which thrived in the dry, sandy soil and the Mediterranean heat, and which never gained any impressive height or density. They cast sparse shade where they clung to the hillside, but their thin, papery trunks offered little screening from prying eyes. Forest it may be, but he felt exposed whilst he was in it.

Following a steep uphill hike, they finally started going downhill, and found themselves in a valley. The trees were thicker down here, clustered around an underground network of streams which occasionally bubbled quietly to the surface to form natural springs. Recalling what he'd been taught at boot camp—that groundwater was usually purer, and safer to drink, than surface water—they stopped at one of the springs to replenish their canteens. In the trees around them, myriad birds warbled their songs, completely unfazed by the strangers in their midst, and Bucky finally felt himself relax a little.

Suddenly, an angry wail shattered the peace of the stifling afternoon air. Bucky froze, every muscle tense, ready to drop, or turn, or lift his rifle and fire. Behind and to the sides, he heard Gusty and Wells halt immobile too. When no attack came, they all relaxed, but not by very much. The wail had a very incessant, grating quality to it.

"What's that noise?" asked Wells.

"Sounds like a seagull, Sarge."

"A seagull? The hell kinda seagulls have _you_ been around, Gusty? No, it sounds like a cat."

"It's not a cat," said Bucky. He'd finally remembered where he'd heard that kind of wail before, and now memories of his childhood came flowing back down the river of time. He couldn't remember Mary-Ann being a baby, because they were pretty close in age, but he could sure remember Charlie and Janet being that young. The sleepless nights, the vomiting, the colic… it was enough to put a guy off wanting any of his own. "It's a baby."

"What would a baby be doing out in the middle of nowhere?"

"Gee, I dunno, Wells, I didn't pack my damn crystal ball for this mission. We should go check it out."

"No, we shouldn't." Wells rolled his eyes when Bucky scowled at him. "What if it's a trap? I believe one of the defining features of babies is that they don't usually crawl out into the middle of nowhere on their own. If there's a baby, it'll be with someone. Even if it's not a trap, it's none of our business."

"I say it is." Besides, that cry was plaintive, agonising, desperate. It wasn't the cry of a happy child, and it stirred something within him. "If you don't want to get involved, then carry on without me. At least if it's a trap, only one of us will get caught."

"Dammit, Barnes, we're not leaving your dumb ass behind." Wells pulled the safety catch of his M1 back with his thumb. "C'mon Gusty, let's prepare to walk into a German trap."

Bucky ignored his friend's sarcasm and crept forward, towards the source of the wailing, his weapon held at chest-height, ready to fire. The foliage was dense down here, all dry spindly grass and low-lying herbaceous shrubs, and he could barely see the ground a half dozen paces in front of him. Not far from their path, he found the first sign of something not being right. It was a body. The body of a man sprawled prone on the ground, dressed in plain civilian clothing. A farmer, perhaps, or a forester. Content that his two comrades were watching his six, he lowered himself to the ground and reached down to feel for a pulse in the man's neck with his left hand. There was none, and the skin was cold to the touch.

 _No big deal. Just a dead body. You_ _'ve seen those before. In pictures. On a projector. Just concentrate on the mission._

"Got a man down here, dead." He glanced down again, saw the patches of red which had stained the man's waistcoat a darker shade of brown. "Looks like he was shot in the back. Keep your eyes open."

He left the body and moved forward again. Suddenly, the forest seemed alive with furtive, dangerous noises. Those birds that had sang pleasantly now chattered and mocked him. Small creatures running through the undergrowth were potential German sharpshooters taking aim. The rustle of leaves wasn't caused by the wind, but a hundred enemy troops descending like a plague. _Idiot_ , he told himself. _It_ _'s probably a trap._

A couple of dozen metres away from the man, he found a woman. Like the man, she'd been shot in the back, but where his body had fallen sprawled, hers was curled protectively around a tiny, red-faced, screaming baby that couldn't have been more than a few days old. The woman's eyes were closed as if in sleep, but her face was grey, like moonlit fog. Again, Bucky reached down to feel for a pulse, but he didn't find one, and hadn't expected to. In his experience, no living woman would ignore a child that screamed like that. Most went running whenever their infants gurgled the wrong way.

With one last glance around for any sign of ambush, he put the safety back on his rifle and shouldered it, then stooped down to pluck the infant from the woman's grasp, cradling it in the crook of his arms. The kid really had a pair of lungs on it. How long had it been since it had last been fed? Probably not more than a couple of days. He didn't know how long babies could go without liquid, but he knew that for adults, three to five days without water was the standard, and it was pretty damn hot out here.

Gusty and Wells stepped forward, glancing at the woman, and the baby in Bucky's arms.

"Whaddya think happened to these people, Sarge?"

"I think Germans happened to them," said Wells.

"Why Germans?" Bucky asked him.

Wells gave a shrug, his eyes continuously scanning the trees. "Who else would it be? All our guys are behind us, and why would the French shoot their own people and leave a baby to starve? Can't you shut the damn thing up?"

"It needs milk."

"Sorry, I'm fresh out."

"Well, at the very least we should give it some water before taking it back to camp."

"Take it back? Take it back? Have you forgotten we have a mission?"

"No, I haven't forgotten," he shot back. "It's my mission, actually. If you want to carry on with it, be my guest. I'll happily turn command over to you. But then the choice is yours. We can't take the baby with us; it's too noisy. If we leave it here, it will probably be dead by the time we get back to it. Is that what you want? For a baby to die? Is one tiny, innocent life less important than a recon mission?"

"I never said that," Wells scowled at him. "Don't put words in my mouth. I just want to make sure you're aware that if we go back and tell the colonel that we didn't complete the mission, you're gonna get chewed out for it regardless of however noble the mitigating circumstances are."

"I can live with that. Maybe it'll be enough to convince Dancing I'm not the colonel's favourite." He looked down at the tiny, screaming face. "Gusty and I will see to the baby. You go see if you can pull a slug out of that guy's back. And one from the woman, too."

An expression of disbelief washed over Wells' face. "You want me to pull bullets out of dead people?"

"Yeah. If we take the bullets back to camp, maybe Stark can identify where they're from. It's not much, but it might be something. Intel. Maybe an answer to who killed these people. Maybe it'll satisfy the colonel."

Wells didn't look convinced. Gusty quickly stepped up to the plate. He'd gone pretty quiet, seeing his sergeants argue so heatedly, and seemed itching for a distraction.

"I'll go pull the bullets out of the dead people, Sarge," he offered. "Back in high school, I used to do vivisections for all the kids who got queasy about cutting up dead things. I don't mind."

"Alright," Bucky nodded. "Check them for any ID, too. Wells, get over here, I need your help."

His fellow sergeant eyed the baby as he would a growling dog. "Is it too late to accept dead body duty?"

"Yes, it is. First thing I need to do is change this diaper. It feels damp, and doesn't smell too great. Here, hold the baby for a minute."

He handed the kid over so he could unstrap his rifle and shrug off his pack. Wells held it out in front of him like it was some sort of poison-spitting snake that might at any moment bite him.

"Don't hold it like that," Bucky said. "You have to cradle it in your arms. And make sure you support its head. But be gentle; babies have very soft heads."

"For godssake, Barnes, I spent my whole life trying to avoid things like this," his friend growled. He made an awkward effort at holding the baby correctly, and wrinkled his nose as he looked down at the screaming child. "Jeez, you're an ugly thing. No wonder the vultures haven't come to finish you off; you probably scared them away with your screaming." For a wonder, as Wells spoke, the screaming stopped. "Uh, I think I broke it."

"No screaming is a good thing. Just keep doing what you're doing, I'm almost finished." He'd made a makeshift cushion out of the waterproof poncho from his backpack, and readied a couple of handkerchiefs. "Alright, gimme the baby."

Wells handed the kid over, and Bucky worked as fast as he could. He whipped off the dirty diaper and tossed it aside, and used one of the handkerchiefs, dampened with water from his canteen, to clean the baby—a girl—as best he could. His emergency aid kit's sterile dressings made a useful absorbent pad, and he tied it off with another handkerchief as a makeshift diaper. Meanwhile, Gusty had returned from the body of the man, and used a pair of medical tweezers to take a metal slug from the woman's back. He put both bullets into a sample container his aid kit, then let Wells pour water over his hands to wash away what little blood he'd got on them.

"No ID on them," he said. "Whatever they were running from, it must'a happened fast."

Bucky looked up at him. "What makes you think they were running?"

"Dunno. Just a feeling. If a guy was running from you, about the only place you could shoot him would be in the back. Looks to me like he was shot first, and she kept going, probably to try and get her baby away from whoever was chasing them. Otherwise they would probably be closer together. Right?"

It made sense.

Halfway through the diaper change, the baby had started crying again. Its angry screams echoed around the valley and put Bucky's nerves on edge. If there were Germans nearby, they couldn't fail to hear that screaming. They couldn't stay here, but he also couldn't afford to carry a screaming kid all those miles back to camp.

"Can't you give it a cracker or something to shut it up?" Gusty asked.

"Jeez, don't you guys know _anything_ about babies?" Bucky asked. How could anyone go through life and _not_ pick up a little bit of info about kids?

Wells shook his head. "Youngest child."

" _Only_ child," Gusty added happily.

He sighed. Thank god the world had women to look after kids. If it were left to guys, the human race would be extinct by now.

"Fine. What we have here is a very hungry, very thirsty baby girl, probably no more than a few days old," he explained. Time to give them a crash course. "Babies don't get their teeth for months, so they can't eat anything solid. About all they can do is drink fluids, and they do that by sucking. Do we have anything in our packs that might serve as a rubber teat?"

Wells pulled out his first aid kit and began frantically searching through it, while Gusty did the same with his mess kit.

"The closest thing I have," Wells said, "is this bottle with a pointy applicator bit, which has eye and nose drop solution in it, or a syrette of morphine tartrate. How do babies feel about morphine?"

"Morphine and babies are a no-no. But pull out one of those salt tablets and a couple of the vitamins. We can add them to water. If she's dehydrated, they should help."

"From the mess kit, I got… nada," said Gusty. "Everything we have to eat needs to be chewed, and unless you want to boil the kid in my cooking pot, there's not much I can offer."

Bucky nodded. "Wells, get a fire started."

"Uh, I was just kidding about boiling the baby, Sarge."

"I know. But this calls for drastic measures. Babies can manage what we eat, as long as it's super fine." He frowned at the screaming infant. "At least, I _hope_ they can. I've never heard of a baby this young surviving without milk before. But we'll worry about that later. What have we got in the ration kit?"

Gusty grabbed all available food items whilst Wells gathered a pile of dry grass and twigs. Before setting it alight, he pulled a small pair of pliers from his pack and used them to separate one of the casings of his Colt ammo from its bullet head. He sprinkled the gunpowder at the base of the small fire, and ignited it with his Zippo. The flame sprang to life with a bright flash as the gunpowder was consumed.

"What?" he asked, when he spotted Bucky watching his progress.

A small smile tugged at one corner of Bucky's mouth. "Nothing. Sometimes I'm just reminded that, occasionally, you do have good ideas."

"We've got a can of unidentifiable meat," said Gusty, rummaging in his pack, "more of that lemon powder stuff that Franklin loves so much, a packet of chewing gum, malted milk tablets, and a bouillon cube. I think we've also got a couple of those cracker things left from lunch, too."

"The malted milk tablets are great. Crush them into the pot and add some water. We don't want it too hot, but she'll probably like it better if it's warm. Put the salt tablets and one of the vitamin tablets in there, too. Here, Wells, you take Francine while I see about mashing up a bit of that meat."

"Francine?"

Bucky handed the kid over, and made a start on the can with his tiny can opener. "We're in France, she's a girl; Francine."

"We're not calling her Francine," said Wells. "That's a stupid name."

"The guy who doesn't want anything to do with kids now wants to name one?" he scoffed.

"Damn right. I think we should call her… Matilda."

"Well… I suppose Matilda's alright," he grudgingly relented. It was a nice name. Nicer than Francine, anyway.

"I like Suzie-Lynne," Gusty offered helpfully.

"Alright then," Wells nodded. "Matilda it is. And Gusty is banned from naming anything. Ever. Now look, Matilda, you gotta be quiet. There might be Krauts lurking nearby. They already shot your mom and dad; you don't want them to get the drop on us, do you?" When his speech didn't work, he pulled his tags from beneath his shirt and jangled them above her head.

"I think she's too young for playing with things," Bucky said. "And probably too hungry."

"I know how she feels." He sank down onto the ground beside the fire. "I'd kill for a proper fry-up. With my bare hands, if necessary. Which I might yet do, if this thing doesn't shut up. C'mon Barnes, there must be some sort of trick. How do I make it be quiet?"

Bucky shrugged. Taking care of babies was much easier when they were in a house full of amenities. "I guess you could try singing to her." Somehow, even with both arms full of baby, Wells managed to flip him a two-fingered salute. "Fine. Try rocking her, then."

"Sure. Hand me some rocks."

"You know, you're not actually as funny as you think you are."

"Bullshit," Wells scoffed. "I'm—oh, goddammit."

"What?!"

"She's got my finger and she won't let go."

Gusty burst out laughing at the sight of Wells trying to extract his finger from the grip of the tiny hand that had hold of it, and Bucky swiftly joined him. When Wells scowled darkly at them both, it only made it that much funnier.

"Stop laughing and help me out here. This thing is worse than one of those Chinese finger traps."

"Don't worry, this mixture's just about ready." Bucky stirred the pan with Gusty's spoon, making sure the lumps were mushed out. It probably wasn't as warm as it should be, and probably wouldn't taste nice, but it was what the Matilda needed right now, in lieu of milk. "Okay, hand her over, let's give this a try."

He moved the tripod off the fire, then accepted the baby from Wells. Sure enough, when he dipped his little finger into the mixture, he found it on the cooler side of tepid, but as soon as he brought his finger to the baby's mouth, she sucked up every bit of moisture and then cried for more. Bucky felt his shoulders relax. It was working. He just needed to get enough liquid into Matilda to keep her alive and, preferably, keep her quiet until they got back to camp. Unfortunately, he know how much and how often babies needed to drink. This was gonna take a while.

"You guys might wanna pack everything up then find a shady spot to keep watch in," he told the other two. "Just because she's finally stopped crying doesn't mean we're out of danger, and it might be a while before we can travel."

In fact, it was almost an hour before they could travel. Feeding a baby, literally by hand, was painfully slow work. Matilda was so dehydrated that she drank everything on offer then promptly fell into an exhausted sleep. But it was better than having her scream the whole way back to camp. At least now they stood a chance of moving quietly through the countryside.

"How are you gonna carry that kid _and_ your rifle?" Wells asked.

"Easy. We've got a triangular bandage in the first aid kid, don't we?"

"Sure," said Gusty. "Lemme grab it."

Five minutes later, he had a sling tied around his chest, which went over his neck on the left, and under his arm on the right, tied off in a knot at his back. Matilda's very own tiny hammock. It did, however, leave one problem. With the kid fastened closely to him, he couldn't get his new rifle into the proper firing position.

"Switch," he said to Wells. "No point me trying to be accurate with that whilst I've got Matilda. You take the SSR-01, and I'll take your M1. And for the love of God, don't break it, or Stark might kill us both."

"Break it?" Wells said, in a scandalised tone of voice. "I've never been clumsy in my life, and I've no intention of starting now."

"What about that time you fell into that ditch?" Gusty asked.

"There were… factors."

"You mean you were blind drunk," Bucky grinned.

"Yeah. And now I'm not. So let's get moving. The sooner we get back to camp, the sooner you can get chewed out, and the sooner we can leave this kid in the hands of someone more qualified than either of us three to take care of it."


	18. Matilda

We Were Soldiers

 _18\. Matilda_

 _Steve_ _'s never gonna believe this._

The thought hit Bucky as he reached the camp's perimeter in the late afternoon. Since leaving Plymouth, he'd been either too busy or too dog-tired to write letters, but the next time they made camp, he would make the effort. He couldn't tell Steve _where_ he was, of course, but the tale of how he'd found Matilda might make it through the army's censors. And in a few months, that letter might reach an official post point, clear the V-mail system and eventually reach Steve. He could already picture his friend's expression as he read the letter; a dry smile, accompanied by a thought of _'I should be there._ _'_

 _I wish you were here too, pal. Everyone here_ _'s crazy. I'm the only sane person in the company._

The trio weren't challenged as they crossed the camp's perimeter, but they received some open-mouthed stares from the men in their foxholes. One guy's cigarette even dropped right outta his mouth, and he didn't realise until it started smoldering on his pants.

A short way in, they came across a group of 69th Infantry playing a game of hoop toss. They were using tent pegs as a base, but Bucky had no idea what they'd salvaged for hoops. As his team passed by, Dugan looked over and offered them a wide grin.

"Wow, you boys move fast. It takes most women nine months to make one of those, but you've only been gone a few hours."

Wells halted briefly to reply. "In the words of the wise and learned Pliny the Elder: 'Fuck you, Dugan.'"

The 69th merely continued laughing until Bucky's team were out of hearing range.

"Wells, you can't use that sort of language around Matilda," he admonished. Mom was always real adamant about Dad not using bad language around Bucky and his siblings when they were kids. Said it wasn't a good thing for young, impressionable minds to hear. Swearing like a trooper was okay for _actual_ troopers, but it had no place in the family home.

"She's a f—" Wells quickly changed tack when Bucky scowled at him, "—that is to say, she's a darned baby. She's not gonna remember this."

"You don't know that. Even if she doesn't remember the words, she might remember the sentiment that goes with them."

"I would be extremely happy if the first words out of Matilda's mouth were to tell Dugan to go fornicate with himself."

"Um, Sarge, what are we gonna tell the colonel?" Gusty asked quietly. The team was drawing more stares. It wasn't every day a guy walked into camp with a baby in his arms.

"Leave that to me, Gusty," said Bucky. "It was my mission. I'll go and report back, while you and Wells take Matilda to the hospital tent. Better gimme those slugs you pulled from the bodies, too. The colonel might want Stark to take a look at them."

"Right."

They stopped to switch packages. Finally, Wells had his M1 back, Bucky had his SSR-01 back, and Matilda was quietly sleeping in Wells' arms. Bucky took a second to rearrange the triangular blanket around her face, then issued some instructions to his friends.

"Tell the nurses that she's been fed and changed, but she'll probably need a bottle of milk right away. She's likely dehydrated—tell them what we gave her back where we found her—and they might want to keep an eye on her temperature, in case she's got heat stroke. Oh, and—"

"Barnes, I'm sure the nurses will know exactly what to do with her. They're dames. This is what they do." Bucky saw a thousand new ideas flicker behind Wells' eyes as one corner of his mouth quirked up into a half-grin. "Hey, do you think Agent Carter likes babies?"

"You can't use Matilda to increase your chances with dames. It's unethical."

"You're just envious you didn't think of it first."

 _They really are all crazy, Steve,_ Bucky thought to his absent friend. _Must be something in that New York water. The Eagles never seemed as crazy as the guys I gotta serve with. The 69th seem pretty normal. Is it me? Am I just a crazy-people magnet?_

"I'll come by and check on Matilda as soon as the colonel's done chewing my ear off," he promised. "Stay with her until then, okay?"

Wells rolled his eyes, but didn't otherwise object, and Gusty gave a reluctant nod. Bucky left them, and wondered how much of his instruction would reach the nurses. Probably not a damn word, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Opening his hand, he looked down at the tiny, deformed blobs of metal. Hard to believe that something this small could end a life. That one day, real soon, he'd be shooting these things into people. Hurting them. Killing them. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he resumed his walk through the camp.

Outside the command tent, he halted and took a deep, calming breath. Sure, he hadn't technically completed his mission, but there had been a good reason. Colonel Phillips would understand.

He pushed himself into the tent, where Phillips was in quiet conversation with Stark and Hawkswell about something tank related. Phillips looked up as Bucky entered and swiftly saluted; the man's face was a craggy but blank mask.

"Sergeant, either you're the fastest soldier I ever laid eyes on, or you're about to give me bad news. Which is it?"

 _He_ _'s not gonna understand. Shit._

"Sir. We reconnoitred approximately half of the distance you indicated, but then we hit a… minor problem."

"How minor a problem are we talking here, Sergeant? A washed out bridge is a minor problem. An entire German armoured brigade marching in in this direction is a somewhat larger than minor problem."

Bucky hesitated for a moment, waiting to see whether Phillips sent Stark away. Stark was a civilian, and regardless of whatever clearance he possessed, he probably wasn't supposed to hear the minutiae of every mission. But Phillips didn't seem to care what Stark heard, so Bucky ploughed on.

"We found a couple of civilians who'd been shot, sir. They'd been dead at least a day, and there was a baby with them. Still alive."

"A baby?"

"They're tiny little people, Colonel," Stark explained.

"I know what a baby is, Stark," Phillips shot back. He returned his gaze to Bucky's face, and it did not look pleased. "This story's gonna end with my battalion having one more mouth to feed, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir." He straightened up as much as he could. "The only choice we had was take the baby with us, or leave it to die. I chose the former. But there was no chance of completing the mission with a screaming kid along for the ride. We came back as fast as we could, and I'm prepared to take my team back out there to finish the job, sir."

Phillips glanced to Stark, who offered a tiny shrug.

"Gimme eighteen hours and I'll have the Nautilus operating under its own impulsion." _Nautilus_ was the nickname Stark had given to the tank that had fallen into the Rhône. He was determined to prove he could salvage it. Until now, it had been towed by one of the other tanks.

"Alright, you got your eighteen hours. Sergeant, did you find anything else of note? I'll send a fresh team, but there's no point them covering the same ground twice."

Bucky leant down over the map on the table and pointed to where he'd found the bodies.

"The map up to this point was pretty accurate. There wasn't anything worthy of note. About here, the forest gets thicker. I figure those people who were shot must've lived somewhere close by, but I didn't see anywhere obvious."

"What about German patrols?"

"Not a single sign of them, sir." He pulled the bullets from the pocket where he'd stashed them and held them out. "We extracted these from the bodies. I thought we might be able to find out where they came from. If they're German ammunition, we'll know there's hostiles close by."

"Stark, take a look and see what you can find out," Phillips instructed.

"Hardly a challenge, but sure," the scientist said, taking the slugs from Bucky's hand.

"Is there anything else, Sergeant?"

Bucky opened his mouth to say 'no sir,' but stopped. So far he'd avoided the angry and sarcastic chewing-out he'd been expecting. Discussing what had happened further might be akin to poking a sleeping bear, but he needed to know if he'd done the wrong thing. Nothing in boot camp had covered anything like this.

"Sir, is there an… ah… official policy, on how to handle this type of situation in future?"

"No, Sergeant, there is no official policy on leaving babies to die versus completing your mission. Lucky for you it wasn't a life or death mission. Lucky for you, the entire war didn't hinge on your reconnaissance. As for how to handle this sort of situation in the future? Pray that you never again have to. You're dismissed, Sergeant. And on your way out, please send a runner for Sergeant Haven. Maybe he can finish the job you started."

"Sir." Bucky saluted, relief washing over him. That could have gone worse. Much worse. At least the colonel hadn't shouted.

He stopped the first Private he came across and instructed him to bring Haven to Phillips, then put all thoughts of his failure out of his mind. All was quiet around the hospital tent, and when Bucky stepped inside he found Gusty and Wells standing aside as a group of nurses clustered around the baby, which was currently being fed a bottle of formula milk.

"How's Matilda?" he asked.

"Very dehydrated," one of the nurses accused, before either of the men could even open their mouths. She made it sound like it was _his_ fault.

"Will she be okay?"

"She's a little underweight, but she should be fully recovered, in a few days."

"Great." He watched the nurses cooing over her. Mary-Ann had done the same over Janet. Must be a dame thing. Matilda certainly didn't seem to mind the attention, but then, she was so fixed on drinking her milk that she was probably oblivious to anything else. "Can I give her the rest of her bottle?"

As one, the heads of the nurses came up and looked at him as if he'd just asked if he could use her in Dugan's hoop toss game, in lieu of actual hoops.

"C'mon, I know what I'm doing," he promised. "I used to do this for my brother and sister all the time." _And surely it can_ _'t take six of you to feed one baby._

"Oh, very well," the nurse holding Matilda sighed. "But be sure to support her head."

"I know." He accepted the baby, and Matilda barely even batted an eye when she was transferred into a fresh pair of arms. As long as the milk kept flowing, she was happy. "Where did you get the milk from, anyway?"

"We always carry a small supply of formula, in case of emergencies."

"What did the colonel say?" Wells asked. He pointedly stared at the nurses, leaving no doubt that this was important top-secret _soldier_ business, until they retreated to the other side of the tent.

"Not much," Bucky said. "He's sending some guy named Haven to finish the recon."

"You're lucky. If it were me reporting that, I would'a got chewed up and spit out all the way across other side of the camp."

"What did he say about the bullets, Sarge?" asked Gusty.

"He's having Stark take a look at them. For now, it sounds like we're gonna be here until tomorrow."

"Can I go sleep now, then?" The corporal let out a fake yawn for emphasis. "I could really do with forty winks. Or sixty."

"Sure, go get some sleep. Will you take my rifle back to the tent, though?"

"And mine," added Wells, tossing his M1 over. "I'd rather have food than sleep, and it'll be dinner time soon."

"You wanna hold Matilda?" Bucky asked him, as Gusty departed with their weapons.

"Pft, no."

"Y'sure?"

Wells rolled his eyes. "Of course I'm sure, Barnes. That thing has had so much milk put in it that I bet it explodes real soon."

"Yeah, she'll probably be a bit gassy."

He watched the baby as she drank contentedly. Now that her face wasn't scrunched up in a scream, he could see that her eyes were blue. It was hard to tell whether she was focusing on his face, or his hand. He liked to think that she recognised him as the guy who'd picked her up and fed her her first meal, but he knew that his face was probably just an indistinct blur to her tiny, new eyes.

A furtive noise by the entrance made him look up. Carrot, Tipper and Hawkins had crept into the hospital tent, and were clustered together, their body language oozing conspiratorial guilt. They approached with poorly concealed grins, and stood in front of Bucky with much shuffling of feet, looking for all the world like a group of schoolboys being forced to talk to dames for the first time.

"What is it?" Bucky asked them.

"Well, the thing is," Carrot began, and Tipper let out a snicker. Hawkins shushed him, a foolish grin on his face. "Y'see, we just wanted to say…" Tipper stepped forward, and brought out a large bunch of wildflowers he'd been concealing behind his back, "...congratulations on your new arrival, Mrs. Barnes."

All three burst out laughing. They slapped each other on the back and hugged their sides in pain until they finally managed to exert a little control. But even then, they looked like they might burst out in hysterics again at any moment.

"You guys are goddamn hilarious," Bucky told them drily.

"And on latrine pit duty for the next week," Wells added. "If you've time to pick flowers, you've time to dig trenches and bury sh—" Bucky glared, "—excrement. For godssake, Barnes."

Not a single one of them objected. Apparently, the punishment was worth it. And they were still grinning like idiots.

"Sarge, can I hold the baby?" Carrot asked.

"What do you wanna hold it for?" asked Wells.

"Samantha wants lots of kids when we're eventually married. I figure this will be good practise."

"Alright, Carrot," Bucky agreed. "Make a cradle with your arms, and I'll show you how to hold her right so that her head's supported." He placed Matilda in Carrot's arms and handed control of the bottle over. The baby didn't even seem to notice she'd been traded again.

"Like this?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"She seems really hungry. Do all babies drink this much?"

"Most of them," he nodded. Charlie certainly had. "Several times a day. And sometimes during the night, as well."

"Well, I can't wait for all that stuff," Carrot said happily. "Even the sleepless nights. Samantha wants two boys and two girls. She's got the names picked out and everything."

"For what it's worth, I think you'll make a great dad," Bucky smiled at him.

"Thanks, Sarge. It means a lot that you think that."

"Ugh," Wells grunted. "If you guys are finished playing house, can we go stand in the queue for the mess? Dinner's in twenty minutes, and all I've had since breakfast is those horrible K-ration biscuits."

"I like those," objected Hawkins. "They remind me of something my great aunt used to make."

"Good cook was she, your great aunt?"

"Lord no! She was a terrible cook. But we had some good times at her house. Me, and Drew, and Betsy. I remember this one time—"

"Ah!" Wells halted him with a raised finger. "I'm not doing nostalgia until I'm in a queue for food."

"Fine, we'll go stand in the damn queue," Bucky sighed. Besides, Matilda was nearly finished with her bottle, and he knew from experience that babies usually brought up a little of what went in. Kids were well and good at this size when they were quiet or feeding, but when screaming or being sick, they were a whole lot less fun. And if Carrot saw how messy babies could be, it might put him off having even one. Poor Samantha would be forever disappointed.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky pushed a piece of potato around his plate, watching it make waves in the too-runny gravy. _Weasel piss,_ Weiss called it. _Liquid brown_. _Gravy-flavoured water._ And he wasn't far wrong. But, for once, Bucky didn't care that much about the state of the gravy. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw two dead bodies, and it was worrying him that he wasn't more worried about that.

Death was on his mind, and had been since leaving the hospital. Until now, he'd had something else to deal with. Keeping Matilda alive and quiet. Getting his team back. Reporting his failure to the colonel. Seeing that Matilda was okay. Now, when his body had stopped, his mind had started.

Should he have made an effort to bury the people who'd been shot? He assumed they were Matilda's parents, but with no ID on either of them, he would never know. If they _were_ her parents, that meant she was an orphan, now. What would happen to her? Hell, Matilda wasn't even her real name. What _was_ her real name? Had her parents lovingly named her in some family tradition? Or had they been waiting for inspiration to strike when they'd been killed? Did she have brothers or sisters out there somewhere?

His melancholy thoughts turned to home. Not to Steve this time, but to his own parents. In his mind, he saw them now as he had when he was younger: strong, unshakable, independent, timeless. His parents were like the sky, or the river, or the city itself. They were just _there_. They had always been there. And they would always be there.

Except… they wouldn't. He could recall with perfect clarity the day he had left home for Camp Shanks. The flecks of grey in his father's hair thick but receding brown hair. The crease lines creeping across his mother's cheeks as she hugged him goodbye and made him promise to take care. His parents weren't _old_ , but they were _older_. With each day that passed, time would take another day from their lives, until eventually, they would have no more days left. Like Matilda's parents, they would be gone.

He'd always assumed that his mom's insistence on finding him a 'nice girl' to settle down with stemmed from some inherent need to be a busybody. But maybe it was more than that. Maybe, when she looked into the mirror, she saw time creeping up on her, too. Maybe she was simply all too aware of how finite time was, and wanted to see her children settled with children of their own before time stole all of her days for good.

The thought that one day his parents would not be there choked him up, sticking a lump in his throat that he couldn't clear no matter how much gravy-flavoured water he swallowed to try and wash it down. He tried to tell himself that he was fortunate. That he was lucky to have two healthy, happy parents. He was luckier than Steve, who'd never known his dad and had lost his mom years ago. Luckier than Matilda, who would grow up never knowing who her parents were.

 _A pity I can_ _'t send her home,_ he thought. _Then mom could go back to having another kid to raise, and maybe she_ _'d stop nagging at me to settle down._

He didn't finish his dinner. He _couldn_ _'t_. For the first time since leaving home, he wished he'd hugged his mom a little longer. That he'd taken a moment to tell his dad how much he appreciated everything he'd done for him. That he'd told Mary-Ann and Janet how much he loved them, and Charlie how proud he was of his brother's achievements. What if something happened to them, while he was gone? He'd never doubted that he would return home from the war, but he'd also never considered that they wouldn't be there waiting for him.

After dinner, he left the mess with a group from the 107th, but hung back as they set off towards the regiment's tent.

"I'm just gonna check on Matilda before turning in," he said.

"Why?" Wells asked. "It's not like she's going anywhere."

"I just wanna make sure she's okay."

His friend shrugged. "Alright. I'll come too. I don't trust you not to tell her tall tales about her Uncle Danny in my absence."

"She's a baby, Wells. Even if I told her tales, she wouldn't remember them."

"Then why'd you have me drop the cussing around her?"

"Common decency, that's why."

The darkness inside the hospital tent was kept at bay by several slow-burning oil lamps dotted here and there. Two nurses were on duty, one of them tending to a soldier's blistered foot. So far, blisters, sunburns and bee stings were the worst they'd had to see to. So far, they'd been lucky.

Matilda was sleeping quietly in a small cot that had been made out of a trough of some sort. She'd been washed and wrapped in a grey blanket, and lay sprawled in that unique way only babies could manage, limbs out at angles that would have been worrying on an adult. Maybe he really _could_ send her home. After all, nobody knew who she was, or where she came from. It was impractical for a baby to travel with an army that could come under attack at any moment. And his mom had already raised four kids; how difficult could one more be?

Wells perched himself on the edge of an empty hospital bed while Bucky stood beside the cot. "Glad we stopped by; I think she's grown a whole millimetre over dinner," Wells quipped. "You really had to go through all of this with your brother and sisters?"

"Yeah." He hadn't seen it as a chore, at the time, except maybe when he would have preferred being outside, playing with Steve, or at the park, tossing a ball for his dog. And even then, it had been a labour of love, as much as a burden. Younger siblings might be a pain in the ass at times, but he was their big brother. It was his job to look after them, and always had been. "Don't you wish you had younger brothers or sisters?"

"No." The answer came out flat, with no room for compromise. Bucky was prevented from questioning his friend further by the arrival of Sergeant Weiss. The grizzled man strode into the tent and made a beeline for the cot. He looked ready to trample right over anyone who stood in his way, so Bucky decided it was prudent to step aside.

"Where's this baby I hear you've collected?"

"Err, here," Bucky said. "Why?"

"Because I wanna look, that's why. You gotta problem with that?"

"Um, no."

Weiss strode over and peered down into the cot. Then he reached down and picked Matilda up, cradling her in his arms before Bucky could even open his mouth to tell the guy to support her head.

"Go on then," Wells sighed, "let's hear it."

"Hear what?"

"Whatever joke you think is funny. Between Dugan and the 107th, we've heard a few of them today."

"Y'know why those other guys take the piss?"

Bucky hazarded a guess. "Because they're jerks?"

"No. Well, yes. But no. It's because they've never had kids. Nobody who's had kids would make jokes, because they'd know what it's like to be in your position." It was odd. Weiss' face seemed to actually _soften_ as he gently rocked Matilda in his arms. It was like seeing rock morph into a slightly less hard rock. "Colonel chewed you out?"

"Just a little."

"Hmph. Don't listen to him. You did the right thing, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. If it were my kid out there, and somebody just walked on past and left her, I'd punch him for it." Bucky nodded. Punching people seemed to be Weiss' answer for a lot of hypothetical scenarios, but he'd never seen the guy _actually_ punch someone. "What's her name?"

"Matilda."

"Nice name."

"I picked it," Wells added.

"I fed her," Bucky countered.

"She likes me better, though. I can just tell."

"Wells, you don't even like kids," he scoffed.

"It's not that I don't like them, per se, it's just that I don't have any experience of them."

"Shhh!" Weiss scowled at them both. "Keep your voices down. You wanna wake her up?"

"Ah, forget this," Wells grumbled. "I'm going to bed. C'mon, Barnes, Matilda will still be here in the morning."

"You go ahead, I'll catch you up."

"It's been a long time since I held a kid this small," said Weiss, after Wells had left. He put Matilda back down in her cot, and the baby didn't even stir. "Sometimes it feels like they'll be tiny forever. And other times, it feels like they grow up so quickly that you'll miss it all if you blink. Especially the girls. Christ, they grow up twice as fast as boys. Don't ask me why, or how, they just do. Matilda here will be breaking hearts while we're still tramping around what passes for the French wilderness."

Bucky nodded. He'd never been a parent, but he'd been an older brother. Watched Charlie and Janet grow up right before his eyes. Now Charlie was leaving for college, and Janet was as much a woman as a girl. He could still remember the long, sleepless nights of colic, but those times felt like a lifetime ago.

"Do you miss your family?" he asked.

"Every damn minute of every damn day. But if my being here means they get to spend another night in safety and freedom, it's a sacrifice worth making. Duty, honour, patriotism; they're a boy's ideals. They're something to fight for when you're too dumb to realise what you've really got to fight for."

Bucky merely nodded. When he'd first signed up, he'd used the same reason as everyone else standing in that line at the registration desk. _It_ _'s my duty_. It seemed the right thing to say, because everybody else was saying it. _Serve my country_. But underneath it all, beneath the clichés, he'd seen one thing in his mind, over and over again. Pearl Harbor, on a larger scale. He'd seen those Japanese suicide planes hitting New York. Destroying his home. Killing his family. The Pacific Theater was a tough gig; everybody knew it, and yet everybody wanted it. Sure, Hitler was a Jew-hating fascist, but it was the Japanese who'd prodded the sleeping dragon. Everybody in that line had spoken of getting out there and paying them back, Bucky included. But for him, it wasn't just about revenge. It was about keeping his family safe. About stopping the enemy before they could strike closer to home. Before they could destroy everything he loved.

Before leaving, he took one last look at the sleeping Matilda. Just a baby, only a few days old, and the war had already destroyed her life. How many more would be destroyed, before it was finally over?

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"What are you fighting for?" he asked the next morning. Lying supine on his camp bed, arms cushioned behind his head, his view was of dull khaki above. Dim sunlight filtered in through the small, plastic-covered tent windows, but the gentle patter of rain on canvas eradicated any desire he had to move from his bed.

"I see it as my duty," Carrot said immediately. It was the answer Bucky had been expecting. It was a very _Steve_ answer. And it made him a little sad.

"Duty to what?"

"To, erm, fight?"

"He means, what are you fighting for?" Wells elaborated in a bored tone. He had a book out, but didn't seem to be paying it close attention.

"I'm fighting for… duty?"

Bucky rolled over onto his stomach and fixed the corporal with his stare. "But you have a beautiful girl waiting for you back home. Don't you have a duty to be with her, too?"

The puzzled frown on Carrot's face was swiftly replaced by a look of relief. "Oh, I get it. This is a test. Don't worry, Sarge, I'm not goin' AWOL. Not me."

"What about you, Gusty?" Bucky asked, giving up on Carrot. The guy just didn't get it.

"I figured it would be a good way to learn some new skills," Gusty replied. "'Course, I also figured I'd get some cushy assignment. Maybe the Quartermaster Corps, or Signals. Never thought I'd end up as Infantry. Kinda too late for regrets though, right?"

"Hawkins? Why'd you sign up?"

"Well, this might sound stupid, but growing up, I always wished I had more in common with Drew. I figured signing up would mean we'd have plenty to talk about. You know, common ground. And maybe if I'd been through some of the same stuff as him, he'd finally stop treating me like a little kid."

"That doesn't sound stupid at all," Bucky assured him. "How 'bout you, Wells?"

"Travel the world on someone else's dime and get paid for doing it."

"Bullshit," he scoffed.

Wells propped himself up, closing his book and aiming a questioning glance at Bucky. "Alright then; why'd I sign up?"

"I dunno. But it's gotta be something more than money."

"You overestimate my motivation."

"I can definitely see you signing up for the money, Sarge," Carrot said.

"See?" A gloating smile dawned on Wells' face. "Listen to the man. He might not be right about a lot, but he's right about this."

Bucky didn't get chance to argue the point any further. A face appeared from the tent flap; a private from one of the other regiments.

"Sergeant Barnes? Colonel Hawkswell wants to see you in the command tent."

Great. Just what he needed. Either a new mission or a new chewing out, and he hadn't even had breakfast yet. So far, army life was turning out to be grossly over-hyped.

"Alright, I'm on my way," he sighed, reaching for his shirt.

For once, his feet didn't kick up dust as he made his way through the camp. Despite the early hour, the most well-used paths were already halfway to being churned to mud. He wouldn't have minded the rain if it had brought a reprieve from the heat, but now it wasn't just hot; it was humid. Unpleasantly so.

Hawkswell was waiting for him in the command tent. Where Phillips was, and how Hawkswell had managed to shed himself of Dancing, Bucky did not know, and he didn't ask, either. He merely saluted and stood to attention, waiting to be told why he'd been summoned.

"Sergeant, you have a new… mission." The word left Hawkswell's mouth like it tasted bad, and there was a disdainful twist to his lips which made Bucky's hopes sink. "This baby that you found yesterday… it can't stay with the battalion. Even if we had the resources to care for it, our mission is too important to risk the distraction of a civilian presence."

"Yessir," Bucky agreed, as his hopes sank further. He knew it had always been a long shot, but he'd really hoped that he'd see Matilda grow a little, before this campaign, whatever this campaign _was_ , was over.

Hawkswell walked over to a map on the table, directing Bucky's gaze to it. "About a day's march ago, we passed a small settlement." He squinted at the map. " _Aureille._ You're to take the baby there, and find somebody to take her in. In the meantime, we'll be packing up camp and marching to the next campsite, here. You're to meet us en route."

Bucky opened and closed his mouth several times. Thoughts flitted through his head like sparrows through the trees. Colonel Hawkswell wanted him to leave Matilda with _strangers_? To just take her to the nearest town and literally dump her there, like she was some unwanted dog, rather than a human being? It didn't seem fair. It didn't seem right. But military etiquette kicked in. It wasn't his place to question his orders. A successful army relied upon a clear chain of command. There could be no dissension.

"Sir. Can I take a jeep?"

Hawkswell gave a sharp nod. "And your team from yesterday. Try to keep a low profile. Go, find someone to take the baby, don't give away anything which might inform of our location or destination, then get out sharp. According to our intel, there's no permanent Nazi presence in Aureille, but that doesn't mean there won't be patrols. And under no circumstances are you to return with that baby. Or any other baby. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir."

"Good. You're dismissed, Sergeant."

He saluted and about-faced, leaving as fast as his legs would carry him, and as slow as he thought he could get away with. It was stupid. He oughta carry out his mission without a second thought. Follow like a good soldier. But he couldn't help the feeling in his gut. The feeling that told him this was a bad idea. And he couldn't help feeling responsible for the tiny life that was about to be handed over to strangers. He'd taken Matilda from the arms of her dead mother, given her food, brought her to safety… saved her life. And now his would be the hands that gave her away.

But maybe that was for the best. He couldn't trust anybody else with this. Couldn't trust somebody else to do what was right for Matilda. Bucky could do what was right. He could scour Aureille for the best damn parents a kid could ever want. And he wouldn't let Matilda out of his arms until he knew she would be taken care of. Until he knew she would grow up loved and treasured, just as he had been.

* * *

 _Author's note: Thank you, recent guest reviewer 'LolWhaddup', for your kind words and encouraging feedback. I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far. Write a book? This **is** a book! ;-) Hope you're all enjoying this particular mini-arc within the story. Bucky isn't just a crazy-people magnet, he's also a crazy-events magnet. But, we knew that already._


	19. Bye Bye Baby

We Were Soldiers

 _19\. Bye Bye Baby_

The jeep devoured the miles. Wells set a fast pace… but probably not as fast as the colonel would have liked. Riding shotgun, Gusty kept his eyes open and his rifle ready. Bucky had the whole of the back seat, and he braced himself with his feet against the base of the seats on front of him so that Matilda, fast asleep in his arms, wasn't rocked too harshly on the bumpy road.

There had been a minor argument in camp, before the team set out for Aureille. Colonel Phillips had thought that Bucky's team would draw less attention if they went in on foot, dressed as civilians, and with only sidearms. Colonel Hawkswell didn't like the idea of soldiers out of uniform; thought the whole idea was _sneaky_. Liked even less the idea of sending soldiers into unknown territory with only sidearms. In the end, Hawkswell had won the argument. Said that when the missions fell under the remit of the SSR, Phillips would call the shots. Orphaned babies did not come under the SSR's remit.

A half mile out from the settlement, Bucky instructed Wells to pull over and park the jeep between the uniformly spaced trees of an olive grove.

"We'll go the rest of the way on foot," he explained, when the two in the front turned with questioning glances. "Don't wanna roll into town if there's a Nazi patrol passing through. I'd like to get the lay of the land, find out what I'm walking into. Gusty, take the jeep a little further into the grove, and stay with it. If you see German patrols, keep your head down and stay quiet. Wells, grab your rifle. You're on point."

Neither of them objected as Bucky prepared Matilda for the remainder of the journey. In truth, there wasn't much preparation to do. She'd been fed before they left the camp, her diaper was fresh, and she was still sleeping soundly. But Bucky wanted her to look her best, to make a good impression on whatever family ended up taking her. Cute, quiet babies got a better response outta adults than ones which were crying and smelled of soiled diaper.

Gusty gave a quick salute before sliding into the driver's seat and making headway into the grove. Wells set a direct path to the village through the trees, no longer constrained by the need to follow a road. He set a swift pace, and in less than ten minutes they found themselves on the outskirts of the small settlement, their presence screened by a series of low, dark green bushes growing wild along the roadside. There, Bucky crouched down and willed Matilda to stay asleep while Wells took out his binoculars and scoped out the place.

"Looks quiet. Couple of vegetable stalls in the village square. Bakery nearby, but you can't probably smell that as well as I can. Small clusters of houses could be a problem; German patrols could hide in the narrow alleys pretty well. But then, so could we. Judging by the size of this place, there can't be more than a few hundred people here. And I see some sort of harvester in one of the fields, out on the other side of town. Horse-drawn. It's like the village that time forgot."

"Good." He elaborated when Wells sent another questioning glance his way. "Sleepy little place like this probably isn't of any strategic value. Lowers our chances of running into Krauts."

"I see your point. So. How do you wanna do this?"

"Lemme have a quick look through those peepers."

When Wells handed them over, Bucky peered through them, immediately transported into the centre of the village itself. Wells was right; the houses were packed pretty close, and generally nucleated around the small town square. The rooftops were clear, but a church belfry caught his attention; good place for a sniper. If he were a German commander expecting an attack, he'd have a sharpshooter up in that belfry. Pick off the targets one by one. The SSR-01 was built for that kind of slaughter. Luckily, the Krauts wouldn't be expecting an attack here, because there was nothing _to_ attack.

"We won't win any trust if we go in sneaking around," he said at last. "And we can't just dump Matilda on a doorstep and hope for the best. We gotta talk to the locals, so let's do that. Main road. We'll go in, ask if there's a midwife or someone who might be willing to take Matilda in or find a family to put her with, and get back to Gusty ASAP. Sound?"

"You're the boss." Wells released the safety catch of his rifle with his thumb. "Never hurts to be prepared, though."

They left their hiding place and stepped onto the road which led into town. Their appearance did not have the effect Bucky was hoping for. The colourfully dressed residents of Aureille backed away when they saw two soldiers approach, eyes widening in alarm. Men, women and children ducked into houses. Doors were slammed. It was as if Bucky had a field of repulsion around him, extending out to a distance of twenty metres. But what the hell were these people so afraid of? Hadn't they seen American soldiers before?

"Wait, don't run," he called to one man's retreating back. He was subjected to a slammed door as a reward. He caught a woman's eye right before she turned to flee. "Please, we just want to talk."

 _Slam_.

"It's the uniforms," said Wells. "They're too jumpy. Phillips was right. We should'a come in plain clothes."

"Or maybe it's your rifle. Do you have to carry it so… threateningly?"

"If I want to be able to use it in a pinch, yeah I do."

"Lower it a little. And try to look less threatening."

Wells sighed, but obeyed. He kept his finger on the trigger, but he lowered the gun into a less accessible position. At least now he didn't like he was ready to open fire at any moment. But the people still fled, and now they were fleeing further in advance. Word of their arrival, Bucky guessed, was spreading.

"This is no use," he said at last. They'd halted in the village square, where even the stall owners had taken refuge inside nearby houses. "Try talking to them."

"You think they'll listen to the guy with the gun more than the guy with the baby?"

"Talk to them in French."

"Ugh, this again? I already told you, I don't—"

"Yes, you do. I heard you," Bucky insisted.

"One line."

"That's one more than I know." He stopped at the well in the centre of the square and perched on the lip of it. It was covered by a small roof, which offered a little relief from the glare of the sun. Much as he wanted to wind up a bucket of cold water to drink and wash his face with, he couldn't afford to let his guard down that much. Besides, there was nowhere to put Matilda. "Start talking, or we're gonna be here a long time."

Wells closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, swearing quietly under his breath. "God dammit…" He turned to one of the houses, addressing its blue-painted upstairs shutter which was open slightly as a couple of worried faces peered around it. "Excusez-moi. Je… prends une enfant?" The wooden shutter was swiftly closed. "Alright, that was the wrong word. 'Prends' is 'take.' Now they probably think we're child snatchers."

"Try again."

This time, Wells knocked on a door. There was no answer, probably because he was still carrying his rifle and looking increasingly pissed off by the way this mission was going, but he shouted through the door anyway.

"Excuzes-moi monsieur. J'ai… trouvé une enfant. Où est le… ah, dammit, I don't know the word for 'midwife.' Où est la mere?" He knocked again. "Je suis un ami. Je ne suis pas ici à blesser ou tuer." With a sigh, he turned back to Bucky. "Alright, my French sucks, but I know what I said mostly should'a made sense."

"Don't worry about it. I have a new idea." He nodded towards the belfry. "Where there's a bell tower, there's usually a church. Might not be a midwife, but the house of God is probably the next best thing. You disagree?" he asked, when an unimpressed grimace crossed Wells' face.

"Are you kidding? The only good thing to come outta church is the idea of drinking wine with your bread."

"Huh? What about that stuff you told Hawkins, back at Camp Shanks? I mean, you were quoting the Bible to him." He'd even known the verse number.

"That was just me telling a guy who'd lost his brother the sorta thing he needed to hear."

"So, you didn't actually believe the things you were saying?" He knew his voice was rising in volume, could hear the anger threading through it, could _feel_ it pulsing through his veins, but he didn't care. Lying to a guy who was in mourning for his brother was low.

"It doesn't matter what I believe. Drew had died, and Hawkins needed to hear that his brother hadn't died for nothing. That there was some greater purpose, some noble cause, some reason behind it to make that loss a little easier to bear. If you want to be pissed off at me for selling him a nice line from an old book, go ahead. Just do it some other time, because right now we're in the middle of Nazi-controlled France, trying to find someone to take a goddamn baby off our hands."

In the silence that descended over the village square, only the flapping of pigeon wings could be heard, and Bucky hoped to God that the people watching and listening from their houses really couldn't speak English, because after Wells' angry tirade, they were bound to think the pair of them mad. But Wells was right about one thing; this wasn't the place to get angry. This wasn't even about Hawkins' brother. This was about Bucky being ordered to hand an innocent, defenceless baby over to strangers. And he wasn't sure he could do it.

He pushed himself up from the side of the well. Matilda stirred in his arms, but didn't wake. "We're actually in the _south_ of Nazi-controlled France," he corrected, because he knew smart-assed pendantism was something Wells could relate to. "I'm taking Matilda to the church. I don't need your input on that. It's my mission, and it's the decision I've made. But I do need you to come with me to translate. If you can't—or won't—do that, then go back to the jeep."

"Just because we have a difference of opinion doesn't mean I'm gonna mutiny. Besides, you're paying more attention to that baby than you are to what's going on around you. I'm not only watching your six, I'm watching your twelve, your nine and your three as well. Your whole clock, in fact. Who's gonna do that if I go back to the jeep?" He set off down the road, abandoning the empty town square. "C'mon then. Let's see if we can find a man of the cloth."

They continued down the dusty road to the sound of silence, and Bucky tried to suppress a chill shiver creeping down his spine. If he hadn't seen with his own eyes the people on the streets only moments earlier, he would have thought this place a ghost town, abandoned by all who once lived here.

The priest was a braver man than the rest, or perhaps he thought his status as a religious figure might offer him some immunity in the event of violence breaking out. After Wells knocked on the church door, the middle-aged, robed man appeared, his fingers clutching a silver cross around his neck. It was hard to get a feel for his body language, under all those dark robes, but his expression was guarded, his movements hesitant, afraid.

"S'il vous plaît, nous sommes un peuple simple, et nous avons rien pour vous de prendre. S'il vous plaît, laissez-nous en paix."

The line of French babbled by the man was completely lost on Bucky, but it was the most they'd gotten out of anybody in this settlement. It was a start. A line of communication. This was good.

"What'd he say?"

"Generic pleading for us to leave them all alone," Wells shrugged. He turned to the priest. "Tu parles Anglais?" The man quickly jerked his head from side to side. "Great."

Bucky listened as his friend went through a similar routine with the priest as he had with the absent townspeople in the square. The priest let out another stream of French, but Wells halted him midway with a raised hand; the priest flinched at that, and it felt to Bucky as if a tiny piece of something inside him broke, right then. What the hell had these people been through, to be so afraid of a couple of American soldiers?

"Répétez s'il vous plaît, lentement."

At that moment, Matilda decided to wake up. Bucky turned his attention to her, rocking her gently to let her know he was still there. _Please don_ _'t cry now!_ he thought to her. Much as he would've loved to take her back to camp, Hawkswell would kill him if he did. And an army camp really was no good place for a child to be raised. Matilda simply watched his face, her blue eyes wide and surprisingly focused. Did she somehow realise how important this was? Did she realise her future potentially hung in the balance?

"You'll soon have a home and a family," he murmured quietly to her. "You'll like it here; it's a nice village. Quiet. You'll love playing in those olive groves we passed through earlier. Maybe we can find you a family with other kids, so you have brothers and sisters to play with. And maybe one day, your new parents will tell you about the time two scary American soldiers came to bring you to the village."

After a couple of minutes of what sounded like awkward conversation, Wells left the priest and walked the few paces back to Bucky.

"Okay. So, I think I managed to convince the priest that we're not murderous baby-snatchers. He says he didn't know Matilda's parents personally, but he knew _of_ them. Real keep-to-themselves types. They'd come into town once every couple of weeks in their horse-drawn cart to pick up food and necessities. He didn't know they'd had a baby, and he doesn't know why Germans would want to kill them. They didn't have any friends here in town, but the priest is friendly with all of Aureille's citizens—shepherd to the flock, and all that—and he knows a couple of families who've recently had new babies. He thinks one of them would be willing to take her in."

Bucky nodded, more to himself than to Wells. "Right. Now, what are you not telling me?"

"That transparent, am I?"

"I can tell by your tone of voice. Something's got you worried."

"When I mentioned those people getting shot, he got real twitchy." Bucky eyed the priest up; he was nearby, affecting to give the two some privacy. "I can't quite put my finger on it. I think he was being honest about not knowing why Germans would shoot a couple of locals, but… I dunno. I'd expect a priest to show a little more concern over the idea of two people being murdered for no reason, especially when it happened so close to his village. I would've expected more shock. But maybe I'm just being paranoid."

"Ask him if he's seen any Germans recently."

So Wells did, and translated the response back. "Yes, a German patrol comes by once a week, usually. They walk through the village, reassure the people that all is well and that they are safe under German protection—using French that's even worse than mine, apparently, if you can believe that—and buy a few bits and pieces that they can't get from their base."

"Does he know where the base is?"

This time, Bucky didn't need his friend to translate the response. He didn't understand the swift babble, but the violent head shake was translation enough.

"He doesn't know, and he doesn't want to know. He assures me the townspeople mind their own business. If we will go, and quickly, and never return, he says he will ask the villagers to speak nothing of our visit. The Germans will never know American forces were here."

"Do you read as much of a threat into that as I do?"

Wells gave a small shake of his head. "I think he genuinely just wants us gone. And I've gotta agree with his sentiment. It's been five days since the last German patrol, and we've got Gusty still out there."

"Tell him I wanna meet these families who might be willing to take Matilda in. I don't wanna leave her with strangers."

Again, the priest shook his head. "He says no. The families would be too afraid to come out."

"Why are they so afraid of two American soldiers with a baby, but not of a German patrol?"

"The Germans have been here for nearly two years, and so long as the locals do not do anything to make them suspicious, the Germans leave them alone. Two American soldiers turning up out of nowhere is very suspicious. The people here are afraid that if the Germans find out there were Americans in town, they will take people away for questioning. Or maybe they're afraid that this is a test, that when the next German patrol comes along, they will be punished if they _don_ _'t_ speak of us." Wells halted his translation for a moment, grimacing as the priest made some sort of slashing gesture with his hand. "Apparently, the _SS_ has eyes and ears everywhere, and the people here have heard what they do during interrogations. It's not that they're afraid of us, it's what they're afraid the Germans will do if they find out we were here. Can't say I blame them, either. The Gestapo are the most dangerous and fanatical. I hear even regular _Wehrmacht_ troops fear them. I think what we're seeing here is a policy of, 'Don't see; don't tell.'"

Thoughts spun around inside Bucky's mind, like that time he and Steve had rode a carnival merry-go-round when they were kids. His first thought was to try to reassure these people that this wasn't a test. His second was to leave with Matilda, because the people here might give her up at the first glimpse of an _SS_ badge. His third was to come up with some excuse Hawkswell would buy for coming back with her. His fourth was that the longer they delayed here, they more danger they were in, and the higher a chance of a patrol coming along and finding Gusty.

As if objecting to the idea of being left behind, Matilda started crying. Of course, he knew that wasn't why she cried. It was past feeding time. But her wails seemed to cement the decision in his heart.

"Wells, I don't like the idea of leaving her here," he said, holding the crying infant to his chest as he tried to rock her into silence.

"Me neither," his friend admitted. "But we have our orders."

"I don't trust these people. They're too twitchy. And I got a bad feeling about this place."

"Of course you got a bad feeling about it; the whole country is crawling with Germans. You'd be crazy if you had a _good_ feeling about it."

"I don't wanna leave her here."

"Dammit, Barnes."

Bucky had been expecting an angry outburst. An accusation that he was being stupid. Jumping at shadows. Maybe even a long, _orders are orders_ tirade. So when Wells instead turned and walked a few paces away, to stare silently across the countryside, he felt somewhat at a loss. Matilda's cries kept him busy for a few minutes, but when he pulled out a bottle of formula milk one of the nurses had prepared for the journey, she finally fell silent as she tucked into her liquid lunch.

"Fine." Wells finally turned back to face him. "It's your decision. Whatever you decide, I'll back you up. If the colonel asks why we brought her back, it's because everyone in the village ran away at the sight of us. There was nobody we could leave her with."

Bucky stared at his friend for a moment. "You'd lie to your CO? If he finds out—"

"He won't find out," his friend replied, his tone one of confidence. "Who's gonna tell him otherwise? It's just you, me and the kid, and she ain't saying a word. Hell, maybe he doesn't even have to find out. Arles is… what, a couple of hours' down the road? We could take her there. Big town. I bet we'd have no problem finding someone to give her a home—one without the bad vibes of this place."

Bucky looked down at Matilda's tiny face. Arles _was_ a big town. More of a city, if his map could be believed. It would be easy for a baby to be raised in anonymity in a city. She would be safe. Probably wouldn't be as many olive groves to play in, but Bucky had lived his whole life without olive groves, and he'd done alright.

But then… Arles was a big town. More of a city, if his map could be believed. It would be of strategic importance to the Nazis. That meant more patrols. Maybe a base or a command centre there. He wouldn't be able to walk into Arles dressed like this, armed like this, driving a jeep with a big white star on the side. It would be suicide. And he told his friend as much.

"Then we don't walk in like this," Wells countered. "I bet the folks here would give us a change of clothes just to get rid of us. We find somewhere remote to park up and go in unarmed. We won't draw half as much attention like that. Just like Phillips suggested."

For a brief moment, Bucky clung to that idea. But he wasn't an idiot. Two guys strolling through Arles with a crying baby would draw attention. And he might not understand any French, but he could see that Wells was struggling for every word. He might be able to get a point across bluntly, but his command of the language would never stand up to the scrutiny of a well-versed linguist. Going incognito would mean leaving his weapon behind. Giving away his only advantage. If they were caught, they would be tortured. Their presence could put the whole battalion in jeopardy. Whatever Phillips was up to, the element of surprise and secrecy would be lost. And it _had_ to be something important, because he'd brought along America's richest inventor.

But more than that, it would mean asking his friends to walk into the jaws of death with him. Wells had probably already thought of all of this, and was willing to suggest it anyway, further cementing Bucky's belief that the guy was _actually_ insane. But he couldn't put Gusty through that. He couldn't risk their lives, and the mission of the battalion, over his bad vibes.

"I can't ask you to do that," he answered.

"Don't have to ask. My suggestion, remember? I nearly killed you—nearly killed both of us—through hypothermia, on the _Monty_. That was my stupid decision. And now, this is your stupid decision. But you had my back with Dancing, the morning after the night I banged my head, so if you want a third option, this is it, and I've got your back on it."

He looked down at Matilda. She looked so tiny and innocent; one hand was clasped against the bottle feeding her, as if afraid it would be taken away if she let go. He couldn't blame her. Everything had been taken away from her during her first few days of life. She needed a fresh start. She needed a good family. Taking her away from here, taking her to Arles… it was the right thing to do.

But he couldn't do it. Too much was unknown. What if they left Matilda in Arles, only for for the city to fall if Bucky's team was captured and tortured into divulging the company's location? What if they never even made it that far; what if a German patrol caught them on the journey, and took Matilda away? Bucky would have been responsible for delivering her into the very hands he was trying to keep her out of. Sure, this place was the frying pan, but out there, somewhere, was a fire. And he had no way of knowing which way the wind was fanning the flames.

"I've made my decision," he said. "This is the end of the line. We don't have the time, resources or manpower to take a longer trip. It's too risky. But I want you to make that priest swear by the God he serves that he'll make sure Matilda ends up with a family who'll love her, and that he'll watch over her as best he can. And tell him her name hasn't to be changed."

Wells gave a short nod and turned back to the priest. Bucky finished giving Matilda her bottle. He tried not to think about her being handed over to someone else. Tried to focus on the good that would come out of this. Matilda would live. She would have a family. That's more than she'd had twenty four hours ago. More than she would have had if Bucky hadn't made the decision to take her back to camp in the first place. He'd done all he could for her. Now it was up to the people here to keep her safe and do what was right for her.

He had no idea what Wells was saying to the priest, but the guy's voice was laced with conviction… and maybe even a little desperation. Did he want them gone that much? Was he, like Wells, telling them what he thought they needed to hear? If Wells really was making him swear by God, he could only trust that the priest wasn't swearing empty promises. Finally, Wells turned back to Bucky.

"He's pretty convincing. The way he was swearing, you'd think I was a member of the Gestapo interrogating him or somethin'. But he promises he'll support Matilda, and her new family, in any way he can. It's time for us to go."

Bucky nodded mutely, and a thought crossed his mind.

"We should'a taken something to give her. Something from her folks, I mean. A necklace, a ring, a scrap of cloth… anything. Some memento from the people who brought her into the world. I didn't think. And now it's too late. She'll have nothing."

"She'll have a life," Wells pointed out. "And maybe one day, when the war's over, you can come back here and find out what kinda life she's been living. Maybe five or ten years' down the line, you'll walk into this place and see a happy, smiling little girl."

"Yeah. I guess you're right." He would come back. One day, he would come back and meet her when she was old enough to understand.

He approached the priest and, with great reluctance, held Matilda out towards him. He accepted her easily, and Bucky didn't even have to ask Wells to instruct the guy to support her head. _Probably baptises his share of babies._ The priest looked up at Bucky, a small smile on his face. He said something that Wells translated.

"He says not to worry. That he'll make sure she has the chance to live a happy and full life."

And then the guy was gone. He entered the church with Matilda, leaving Bucky to stare at the closed wooden door.

"For what it's worth, I think you did the right thing," Wells told him.

"I hope so."

They set off on the road that led out of the settlement, passing through the town square. Bucky felt the eyes watching him, but he couldn't bring himself to care about them. For better or worse, he'd just handed an innocent, defenceless child over to a stranger. Maybe one day, Matilda would thank him for that. Or maybe she would grow up cursing him. Either way, what was done, was done. The colonel would be pleased.

He stopped on the edge of the olive grove. "Where'd you learn to speak French?" he asked Wells.

For once, he met little resistance. Maybe Wells was too tired to make up bullshit, or maybe by this point, he just didn't care. "My grandpa. He was French. Thought it was important we learn the language."

"I thought your grandparents were Irish? More Catholic than the Pope, wasn't it?"

"On my Dad's side, yeah. But my Mom's mom was Irish, and her dad was French." A smile ghosted across his lips. "Wouldn't converse in English. It's amazing, what you can pick up as a kid, when somebody refuses to speak your language. Used to annoy the hell out of my dad. Couldn't tell a word we were saying. Maybe that's why I learnt it so easily."

"What was he like? Your grandpa, I mean."

"He was great. Died when I was eleven. One day, I might even forgive him for that."

Bucky left it there. He didn't need to be a mind reader to know his friend didn't like how close to home the conversation was getting.

"Why'd you try to hide the fact that you speak French?" he asked instead. "You lied about it. More than once. And badly, I might add."

"Because we're in France." Wells offered a long-suffering sigh as he launched into an explanation. "Anyone who speaks French is automatically going to get 'volunteered' for any mission which needs a translator. And you know the rule about volunteering for stuff."

He gave a slight nod of agreement. One of the first lessons you learnt in Basic. _Never volunteer for anything._ It was a lesson never purposely taught, but swiftly learnt by new recruits.

"Don't worry. The brass won't hear about it from me." Keeping that particular secret was the least he could do for the guy who'd offered to drive to Arles with him.

They found Gusty where they'd left him, guarding the jeep with a wary vigilance. "No sign of anyone on the road, Sarge," he reported. "All's quiet. I could almost forget there's a war goin' on. Didja find someone nice to leave Matilda with?"

"Yeah," he said. "Real nice. She'll be happy here."

"Good. Y'want me to drive, Sarge?"

"No. I'll take the wheel. You and Wells keep your eyes peeled. Just because it's quiet now, doesn't mean it'll stay that way."

After all, there was still a war going on. Two of its victims lay only a few miles away, slowly becoming distant memories. The parents a little girl would never know.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

By the time they caught up with the battalion, camp had already been set up for the night. Bucky jumped out of the driver's seat and told Gusty to take the car back to the motor pool for refuelling.

He went straight to the command tent, where Hawkswell and Phillips were discussing something so important that they clammed up even before Bucky was within hearing range. He threw up a salute and gave his mission report.

"Sir, it's done. We left the baby with a priest in Aureille and encountered no enemy forces. The priest did tell us that German patrols are active in the area, and that the Germans have a base somewhere not too far away, but he didn't know where."

Neither of the men blinked an eye. _They already know._ They'd probably known the Germans had a base here even before they'd landed on French soil. A chill ran across his flesh. _Maybe that_ _'s the point. Maybe that's why we're here. Capture a German base. That must be the mission._

"Good work, Sergeant Barnes," said Hawkswell. "Your team can stand down. Dismissed."

Bucky saluted. In his veins, his blood ran cold. Destroy or capture a German base. That was their mission. That was why they needed the tanks. That's why Stark was here. That was why nearly eight-hundred men had been smuggled quietly into the south of France.

Outside the tent, Wells found him, but Bucky barely even heard his friend ask how the report had gone. His mind was too full of images, like the moving pictures of the big screen. Men, storming some Kraut compound. Machine guns firing. Tanks churning up the ground. German artillery returning fire.

"Barnes, what's wrong?" Bucky snapped out of if when Wells shook his shoulder. "You look like you've see a ghost."

He glanced around quickly, to make sure nobody was close enough to overhear. No point panicking the troops. No point spreading rumours before they could become fact.

"I told the colonel about that German base the priest mentioned, and he didn't even blink. Already knew about it. I think that's our mission."

"Makes sense," Wells agreed, with even less of a reaction than Colonel Hawkswell.

At that moment, Bucky truly appreciated how convoluted his fellow sergeant's mind actually was. In the midst of translating French and coming up with plans to get Matilda into Arles undetected by German forces, he'd already considered that the German base might be their mission and said not a damn thing about it. But if Wells had already thought one or two steps ahead, how many steps ahead were Hawkswell, and Phillips, and Stark?

"Oh good, you're back from the baby mission."

Bucky jumped as Stark's voice snapped him out of his private thoughts. What was it they said of the devil? _Speak and he will appear._ This time, he appeared with two more scientist-looking fellas in tow. Where the hell had _they_ come from? Had they been hiding in the plane?

"Glad you got rid of that thing," the inventor continued. "It's never a good idea to have a baby around. Gives dames ideas. Bad ideas. Wrong ideas."

"Yeah, I'm sure all twelve dames in the battalion were considering deserting to start families of their own," scoffed Wells.

"I'm working on this new drug design to make prisoners talk," Stark explained. "Haven't got it quite right yet. Instead of instilling a desire to become more vocal, it closes off the vocal cords to prevent speech. I'm always on the lookout for test subjects whilst I refine my design… so if you wanna send over any annoying or sarcastic members of your regiment for the purposes of testing, please feel free, Sergeant… ah…" he clicked his fingers at Bucky.

"Barnes."

"Right." Stark tapped his chin for a moment with one finger. "Good call on the slugs you pulled from those bodies, by the way."

"Did you manage to ID them?"

Stark looked at him as if he was mad. "You do realise who you're talking to, right?"

"Lemme guess," said Wells, "German bullets from a… oh, let's say a Steyr. I've got a dollar riding on the pistol bet," he told Bucky. "Davies thinks it was from a rifle, but he didn't see the slug."

"Sorry to tell you, but your Davies just won a dollar," said Stark. "Both those people were killed by rifles."

It still didn't make sense. "Why would Germans shoot two French citizens in the back?" Bucky asked.

"Maybe because they didn't? Those bullets weren't from a German rifle; they were French."

For the second time since getting back to camp, Bucky's blood felt like ice in his veins. But Wells was unwilling to concede defeat.

"French bullets from a French rifle, not necessarily fired by French people," he pointed out. "After all, France is occupied by the Nazis. It would make sense for them to use French weapons. Right?"

"Mmyeahno. French weapon designs are behind German designs," said Stark, in a lecturing tone of voice, "and the Germans already have Czech and Austrian weapons manufacturing industries under their belt; about the only people desperate enough to use French weapons are the French themselves."

"But why?!" Bucky insisted. Couldn't he get a straight answer out of anyone? "Why would they kill two people like that? Two innocent, unarmed people with a baby?"

"The first rule of science," Stark explained calmly, "is… well, hell if I know. I never much believed in playing by the rules. Rules are there to be bent or broken. Point is, you shouldn't suppose what you don't know. You don't know those people were innocent. You don't know they were unarmed when they were killed. As for why?" He gave a noncommittal shrug. "We may never know. Neighbourly disagreement? Family feud? Botched robbery? Mistaken identity? Execution? Maybe—"

"Execution?"

"Sure. I've heard the Resistance often execute German collaborators and spies, and out here, we're in prime Maquis territory. Wouldn't be surprised if the fellas already know we're here."

Bucky glanced to his friend, and guessed the poorly veiled concern he saw on Wells' face was a mirror of his own.

"Anyway, gotta run," Stark continued. "Places to go, things to invent. Remember what I said about test subjects."

Stark moved past them, but Wells turned to call after him.

"Hey, Stark—"

" _Mister_ Stark," the other man interrupted, an admonishing finger raised. "I'll also accept _Doctor Stark_ or _Professor Stark._ "

"Have you any idea when we'll be attacking the German base near here?"

Stark laughed, and it was such an unexpected sound that it momentarily shocked Bucky out of his thoughts of French Resistance members murdering people and turning children into orphans.

"Attack a base? Is that what you think we're here for?" Stark grinned. "You boys sure have an active imagination."

He left, still chuckling to himself. As soon as he was gone, Bucky dismissed him from his thoughts. Right now, he had more important concerns.

"We left Matilda with people who might've had a hand in killing her parents!" he said.

"I'm sure she's—"

A flame of anger sparked inside him. He held up a hand to stall his friend. "Do me a favour? Don't ever tell me what you think I need to hear. I don't want words coated in sugar to make them easier to swallow, I don't want platitudes, and I don't want to be comforted by lies."

"Alright. No lies, no platitudes, no sugar coating," Wells agreed. "I suspect, judging by the priest's reaction, that he knew those two people had been killed. Maybe he even knew who did it. But I think he was telling the truth about not knowing they had a baby, and he swore pretty damn hard that he'd do everything he could to keep her safe. It's possible that Matilda was overlooked, especially if the shooting happened at night. I guess if the villagers are harbouring Resistance members, that adds a new layer of explanation to their twitchiness."

"Do you think she's in any danger? If somebody in that village killed her parents—"

"I don't know." Speculation danced across Wells' blue eyes. "I suppose it depends on whether the folks here are the 'sins of the father' types. But really, we're just guessing. Maybe like Stark said, it was a botched robbery. We shouldn't assume the worst."

"Wells, you are a _master_ of assuming the worst."

His friend offered a small shrug. "And clearly I'm a bad influence on you, because you used to be a 'hope for the best' kinda guy." A sigh escaped his lips as he ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I still think we did the right thing. If you don't, if you wanna go back for Matilda, I'll go with you. I'll tell the colonel that you frog-marched me at gunpoint, of course, but I'll go."

"Why? Yesterday you were trying to convince me to complete our recon mission and leave Matilda behind."

"And clearly you're a bad influence on _me._ But I don't wanna lose sleep over the thought of leaving a kid with someone who might wanna hurt her. And I don't wanna lose sleep over the thought of _you_ losing sleep over it. I also don't wanna spend the rest of this campaign agonising over the decision. It was your mission. Your call. You decide how it ends. If you're mad enough to go get her, I'll go along and watch your six. If you decide she stays where she is, I'm gonna choose to believe that she's living a life of sunshine and daisies. And puppies. Fluffy puppies. And all that stuff you never get in a big city, like skipping through the meadows or whatever."

Bucky inhaled slowly, letting the thoughts tumble through his mind on an equally slow exhale. Sunshine and daisies. Fluffy puppies. Meadows. That sounded like a nice life. The kinda life Matilda might get out here. Eventually. Once the war was over. Besides, Wells was wrong. It might have been his mission, but it was never his call. He was just a sergeant. He had only as much authority as was needed to carry out a mission. If he'd brought Matilda back, or if he went back for her now, Hawkswell would only order someone else to take her away. Someone like Dancing, who wouldn't care about where he left her. Wouldn't care about making somebody swear to watch over her.

This was the way it had to be.

"We did a good thing, today," he said slowly. "Matilda will have a good life in Aureille. Full of sunshine. And daisies. And meadows."

"Not forgetting the fluffy puppies," Wells nodded sagely. "I agree. And I'm glad you made this decision. I didn't wanna see you court-martialled for disobeying orders. You're about the only guy in this army who's crazier than me, and I'm in no hurry to inherit that crown."

Bucky blinked. There was no sign of a joke on Wells' face. "What? Are you kidding? I'm not crazy. I'm pretty much the only sane guy here."

Wells gave his shoulder a reassuring pat, coupled with a smile that was slightly patronising. "Uh-huh. You keep telling yourself that, pal."

"It's true! How can you possibly claim with a straight face that I'm crazier than you?"

"Simple," Wells explained, as they set off to find the regiment's tent. "People who know they're crazy can't actually be crazy. Meanwhile, all genuinely crazy people think it's everybody else who's crazy, and they're sane. I never said I wasn't crazy; just that you are more so. You're the one who claimed you're the only sane guy here. That's _obviously_ crazy-talk."

"I call bullshit. And don't waste your breath; you're never gonna convince me that I'm crazy."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Wells assured him. "But that's just further proof. Everyone knows crazy people can't be reasoned with. If you don't believe me, ask Davies. He'll tell you how crazy you are."

"Yeah, he probably would. Because he's crazy."

It was the stupidest, most circular logic conversation he'd had in a long time… but he welcomed it. As far as distractions went, it could have been worse. Pleading for his own sanity with a guy who was obviously crazy stopped him from thinking about the baby he'd handed over to strangers only a few hours ago. Stopped him thinking about the French Resistance members who, even now, might be shadowing the camp and spying on their activities. Stopped him from thinking about that German base… and how many people were going to die when Phillips finally gave the order to attack it.


	20. Exit, Stage Left

_Author_ _'s note #1: Back to this guy again! Kind thanks go out to JayRain, for letting me borrow 'Kevin' from her excellent fic, '_ Define Stupid.' _If you want an intriguing insight into Steve_ _'s time in the USO, go check out her story! It's sweet like cookies dipped in melted chocolate then left to cool and covered with chocolate sprinkles._

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _20\. Exit, Stage Left_

 _"Hey, Rogers!" Gilmore Hodge's voice rang out, full of mocking cruelty. "What's a weed like you really doing in a program like this?"_

 _Steve_ _'s fingers hesitated, the pen falling still in mid-word. He'd spent the past four days trying to get a letter to Bucky written out, but each time he started, he couldn't seem to get past 'Dear Bucky, I wish you were here.'_

 _There was a mean twist to Hodge_ _'s lips as he sneered down at his tiny nemesis. Steve decided to ignore the goad. He didn't have a real answer. He didn't know what he was doing here. All he knew was that Erskine saw something in him. Some potential that nobody else could see. And that was good enough for Steve, but he didn't think it would be good enough for Hodge. The guy was the kinda bully Steve had been standing up to all his life, just the latest in a long line of aggressors and no more memorable than the last._

 _He couldn_ _'t figure out what Hodge's problem was. The big guy—Colonel Phillips' favourite horse in the proverbial race—seemed to take exception to Steve being here… but why? Hodge was sure this program was designed to test the recruits' strength, stamina and ability to follow orders, which meant Steve stood little to no chance of being picked as the final candidate. But Hodge was acting as if Steve was his greatest rival._

 _Maybe it had something to do with Agent Carter. She_ _'d given Hodge a bloody nose on day one, but Hodge merely took that as a challenge. An excuse to try harder to win her attention. Strutted during parade drill. Puffed out his chest when doing star-jumps. Grunted unnecessarily with the effort of every push-up. So far, his attempts to get Agent Carter's attention had failed badly. She didn't avoid looking at Hodge; her eyes just moved steadily over him, as if he existed only as a part of the background._

 _Probably didn_ _'t help that her smiles for Steve were genuine, and all the recruits had seen them._

 _Somebody clapped Steve hard on the shoulder, almost sending him sprawling from his camp bed._

 _"Maybe lover-boy is here to comfort Agent Carter when you get sent off to the front lines, Hodge," Private Hernandez grinned. The guy never passed up an opportunity to taunt Hodge about Carter. Like Steve, Hernandez was a little on the smaller side of the soldier scale, but he had a quick wit and quick hands; on day two of the program, Hodge had given Hernandez a push into a huge puddle of mud, so Hernandez had gotten his own back by sprinkling a little sugar in and around Hodge's bed. The ants which plagued the camp loved sugar. Every morning, Hodge woke up with new bites._

 _"You gotta be kidding me," Hodge scoffed. "Dames aren't interested in sickly little pipsqueaks like Rogers. They want real men." He balled up his hand into a fist and slapped it hard against his chest with a dull_ thud _._

 _"I never saw a real man get punched in the face by a señorita before," Hernandez grinned._

 _"Well, obviously, I let her do it," Hodge lied poorly. "Saw the punch coming a mile away, of course. Anyway, you didn't answer my question, Rogers. What're you doing here? Apart from making the rest of us look good, I mean."_

 _"_ _Maybe I'm here to prove that there's more to being a good soldier than big muscles," Steve offered at last. "Or maybe they just needed someone to get that flag down from the pole after seventeen years of being up there, for cleaning."_

 _"_ _What even made you think of doing that, Rogers?" Hernandez asked. Steve didn't mind the guy; he was quick to joke, but his jabs lacked the cruel sting of Hodge's barbs, and he shared them out around the whole group, instead of reserving them solely for Steve._

 _"_ _Well, I just figured if nobody had got it down by climbing up there, maybe nobody had raised it by climbing up there, either. And I remembered what I was taught in school; what goes up, must come down. Somehow."_

 _"_ _Pfah!" Hodge scoffed. "You might as well pack up your bags and go home to mommy right now. Is that what you've been writing every night for the past four days? A letter to mommy? Asking her to come and tuck you in at nights?"_

 _Steve_ _'s hand curled tightly around his pen. He tried to tell himself that it wasn't personal. That Hodge didn't know his mom was dead. That if he did, the big guy probably wouldn't have joked like that. He just would'a made some other kind of joke. 'Poor Rogers, no mommy to go crying home to.' He'd heard that one before, too. Got beat up in an alley behind the library for it._

 _When his taunt failed to elicit a response, Hodge strode over and grabbed at the paper Steve was writing on. Steve tried to keep it from him, but it was futile. The paper tore in half, and Hodge came away with the start of the letter._

 _"_ _Let's see what pipsqueak's been saying to mommy." Hodge grinned maliciously. "'Dear Bucky, I wish you were here…' Oh ho! Who's 'Bucky', pipsqueak? Your boyfriend?"_

 _"_ _A friend," Steve said, trying to keep the scowl from his face. "If the concept's too unfamiliar for you to grasp, I could try to explain it in small words."_

 _Hodge crumpled the torn letter up and threw the paper ball at Steve. It hit his head and bounced onto the floor._ _"Don't make me laugh, Rogers. Who'd wanna be friends with you, apart from other pipsqueaks? Bet you and 'Bucky' spent your lunch hour cowering in the science labs at school, too afraid to go out in case somebody accidentally knocked you over by looking at you the wrong way. Guess we should just be glad there's only one of you pipsqueaks here, slowing us all down."_

 _A voice called from outside the barracks._ _"Lights out in five!"_

 _Hodge returned to his bed, and Steve let out a forlorn sigh as his fingers toyed with the ball of crumpled paper. It would be another day before he_ _'d get a chance to write to Bucky. Another day of gruelling physical toil. Another day of feeling like his heart and lungs were gonna explode out of his chest. Another day of waking to muscles that felt as heavy and stiff as lead._

 _He pulled the blanket over himself as the room was plunged into darkness, and looked up into the blackness of the ceiling above. Where was Bucky now? Probably halfway across the Atlantic ocean. Having a great time. Making loads of new friends. Bucky never failed to make friends wherever he went, and now he wouldn_ _'t have Steve to hold him back. No sickly best friend to look out for. Bucky had never thought of Steve as a burden, but Steve knew that, sometimes, he was. And Bucky had always been too pig-headed and stubborn to do the sensible thing and leave him behind. He was one heck of a friend._

 _"_ _You might as well give up now," Hodge grumbled in the dark, and there was no doubt who his comment was aimed at. "You don't stand a chance of being picked. Time to wake up, Rogers."_

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Hey, Rogers. Rogers, wake up!"

Steve grumbled under his breath and let his heavy eyelids rise. The dream of Camp Lehigh faded away, taking with it Gilmore Hodge and the crumpled letter. Kevin, Senator Brandt's most trusted aide, was shaking his shoulder.

"Whu'?" Steve mumbled sleepily.

"We start in ten minutes, pal; you need to wake up and get your head in the game. This is your most important mission yet."

He pushed himself up from the position he'd fallen asleep in, draped across the dressing room table. When his gaze found the large, illuminated mirror above the table, the blue eyes of a stranger looked back at him. A moment later, the stranger became Steve. It still took a slight period of adjustment before he recognised his own reflection.

"Remind me what the mission is again."

"You're selling bonds to St Louis' finest businessmen. It's a family affair, so turn on the charm for the wives and the gumption for the kids. We want those little ones to go home begging daddy to buy war bonds."

"Sounds kinda like yesterday's mission. And that mission we had in Chicago, last week. When am I gonna get the chance to go on real missions, Kevin? You know, the kind in which I get to fight the real Hitler, and not just Tom dressed up like him? I want a mission that matters to the war."

"This matters!" Kevin assured him. He picked up Steve's blue hooded mask and held it out with all the gravitas of a mayor offering keys to the city. "The Senator is working to get you fast-tracked to the front lines—keep in mind that you haven't even been through the full 12 weeks of Basic Training—and in the meantime, you can help the war effort by making sure everybody in that audience wants to buy bonds. Remember what we put in your speech? _Bonds buy bullets._ They also buy the guns that fire the bullets, and the food that the soldiers eat. They pay the soldiers' wages and the medical supplies they need when things get tough. The more bonds we sell, the better the war goes, and the more of our guys get to come home to their families afterwards." Kevin shoved the mask into Steve's hands, new ideas flickering behind his eyes. "Hmm, maybe we can work that angle into your lines." The flickering ideas were replaced by the light of inspiration. "Sponsor a soldier! There's gotta be guys out there with no real family back home. Soldiers who'd welcome a letter and a box of good ol' American treats from some well-meaning family."

"Has Senator Brandt given any indication of how long it might take to fast-track me?" Steve asked, trying to keep Kevin's mind in the room. Every morning he woke up hopeful that the call would come. Every night he went to sleep disappointed that it hadn't.

"He's working on it. I promise."

"Fast track," Steve grumbled. He pulled the mask over his head and checked his reflection in the mirror. A walking flag. That's what he was. "More like a slow-track."

"Don't let it distract you," said Kevin. "You're getting real good with your lines. I think soon, you won't even need the shield."

"I like the shield."

"Then you can keep the shield. Whatever works for you, works for me. Oh, and this time, try not to step on Dorothy's toes; she's threatening to quit if you do it again. I know, I know," Kevin rushed on, before Steve could even open his mouth to object, "it's not your fault, you've got big feet now, your co-ordination's still a bit of a problem, yadda yadda. But we can't afford to lose one of our best dancers. Just be careful, okay?"

"I'll do my best," Steve assured him.

"I know. You always do. And when you're done, there's someone I'd like you to meet."

"Not more politicians!" Steve groaned.

He didn't mind the children; seeing the excitement in their eyes as they came face to face with the man who'd punched Hitler's lights out was uplifting, and often the highlight of the day. In those moment, he saw echoes of his own childhood, saw eight year old Steve in the faces of those children, and it made him smile with fond longing for simpler times.

The dames, too, were fairly easy to deal with. They came up to him wearing pretty dresses and wide smiles, and every time, habit made him glance over his shoulder, to look for the guy they were giving the eye to. Every time, it surprised him to realise _he_ was the source of their coy smiles. Mostly they wanted autographs. A few wanted pictures of him holding their babies. One or two asked whether he had any contacts within the Forces; desperate for news of their husbands and fiances, they'd come to the show hoping he could pull strings for them. When he told them he wasn't technically even a real soldier, the smiles faded pretty fast.

But the politicians were a nightmare. They wanted to pose for pictures, use 'Captain America' to appeal to the people in their political campaigns. After a week, Steve had become a master of the fake-handshake-and-winning-smile-for-the-camera position, and he hated how false it felt. After the pictures came the inevitable invites to visit various public buildings and interesting landmarks; for the most part, Kevin dealt with those, patiently explaining that Captain America's schedule was too tight to allow for personal visits, but a few were important enough to Senator Brandt that Steve had to play ball. He'd swiftly decided that the world of politics just wasn't for him.

"No, not a politician. But we'll talk about it more after the show. Right now, you've gotta get ready for the stage."

Out in the left wing of the stage, half of the dancers were waiting for the band to strike up the music. Waiting for the curtain to lift. Waiting to see whether Captain America would fluff his lines. Again.

"Hi, Steve," they greeted with smiles and small waves.

The smiles he returned, feeling as out of place as ever amongst the glittery costumes, painted faces, and elegant dancers' legs which went on forever. If Bucky were here now, his eyes would be popping out of his head. The showgirls were nice enough, picked as much for their looks as for their ability to dance in a row, but none of them had that special spark of something that made them stand out from the crowd.

None of them were Peggy Carter.

Out in the concert hall, the lights dimmed. The crowd hushed. The band struck its first chord, and the curtain went up.

"Don't forget about this, Steve," smiled Anya, handing him the shield with his lines taped inside it.

"Thanks, Anya."

Where would he be without that shield? Lost. Completely and utterly at the mercy of the crowd. A ship without a rudder. A sailor without the stars. Thank God for the shield.

Taking a deep breath, he waited for his cue, for the line about the Star-Spangled man with a Plan, then stepped out from the wing, onto the stage. The heat of the spotlights immediately tried to roast him alive, and the roar from the crowd nearly deafened his sensitive ears. But he smiled. And he waved. That was the plan. Smile and wave his way to the front lines, if necessary.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"This is Angelo Demarci," said Kevin, later that evening. The crowds had gone. The photographer had packed up for the night. The girls were in their dressing room, celebrating another successful show in the USO's schedule. Only the teamsters were left, packing up everything the show would be taking to its next tour venue.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rogers," said Angelo Demarci. He offered his hand, and Steve shook it. Demarci was a well-groomed, suited guy whose dark hair had been coiffed to perfection. Steve might have guessed him to be a politician, save for the fact that the politicians only stuck around while the photographer was on duty.

"Likewise," Steve offered.

"Mr. Demarci has been hired by Senator Brandt to be your PR Agent," Kevin explained.

"I need a PR Agent?"

"You do now," Demarci smiled. "Several exciting new contract opportunities have arisen."

A sense of foreboding wound its way through Steve's chest. The only opportunity he was interested in was getting to the front lines and fighting with the rest of the army, and he had a feeling that anything else would only delay that possibility.

"What sort of contract opportunities?" he asked.

"Nothing that should interrupt your daily routine too much," said Demarci. He pulled out a notepad, on which a calendar had been sketched. "First, we've been approached by several magazines interested in using your image in their marketing campaigns. Some of it's house-wife stuff— _Is your cleaning product as strong as Captain America? Take out dirt like Captain America takes out Nazis!_ and so on and so forth—but there are also requests for pictures of you visiting landmarks. You know, reminding the troops on the front lines what they're fighting for. We've got a slot scheduled at Mount Rushmore next week. My photographer, Freddie, is going to meet us out there. He's the best there is."

Steve nodded. Posing for pictures. That didn't sound too bad. He was already doing that, and it sounded like a good way of seeing a little more of his own country. If it helped the homesick and disheartened troops on the front lines to remember their purpose for fighting, even better.

"You're also a comic book hero, now," Demarci added.

"What? Since when?!"

"Since yesterday. Senator Brandt asked me to broker a deal, and we got everything signed last night. A team of dedicated writers and artists will be working on a weekly comic strip, showing those who can't make it to your shows some of Captain America's exploits. We think it's going to be very popular with children. You might even outsell Captain Tootsie, and that's definitely something to be proud of."

"But I don't need to actually do anything for the comic, do I?" _Comics about Captain America, drawn by Captain America_ , had a nice ring to it, and he'd always loved comics.

"Perhaps the occasional comic book signing, but we can work that around the shows. The artists may need to get a look at you in various poses, but they've assured me they can work largely from photographs, so you don't need to be physically present. The same can't be said for the moving pictures, however."

"Moving pictures?!"

Steve's world went spinning out of control. The shows were bad enough; how was he ever gonna manage to remember lines for movies?!

"Nothing big," Demarci assured him. "You're not important enough yet for Technicolour, but we've got a three-film deal for shorts. We're talking twenty to thirty minutes, tops. And don't worry, they'll be action flicks, so most of your talking will be limited to heroic catch-phrases and witty comebacks thrown with your punches." He must have read some of Steve's inner panic from his eyes. "And there will be cue-cards. Lots and lots of cue-cards. Filming's scheduled for the back end of July."

"Somebody please wake me up," Steve groaned.

"It's not as bad as it sounds, Mr. Rogers. You'll be amazed at what the guys in the editing room can do with a few clips. One shot of you firing a gun can be used multiple times in multiple films. It will reduce filming time considerably. And most of the shooting can be done in the studio, so you've no need to worry about on-location scenes."

Steve's head spun as the implications came trickling into his mind, like summer raindrops down a window. He was gonna be in movies. In comics. Maybe in books or on the radio, too. He was going to be in living rooms across America. He was going to be in diners, and on shelves, and in the hands of countless children, and in cinema screens nation-wide… everywhere but the one place he wanted to be. The scrawny kid from Brooklyn now had a PR agent. What would be next?

He'd always been a private person. Sometimes privacy had been forced on him, especially during the lonelier times of his childhood, before he'd met Bucky. _Reticent_ , one of his teachers had described him, on his report card. _Disinclined to make himself the focus of attention in a group_. But that was an outsider's perspective. Steve hadn't seen it like that. He was, for the most part, happy in his own company, or in the company of those he liked and trusted. He didn't need attention. Felt awkward, when too many eyes fell on him.

After the comic, and the movies, and the photographs, Steven G. Rogers would be a household name. Privacy would be much harder come by. People were already flocking to the shows; how much more desperately would they flock to the movies?

"I don't want to be me," he mused quietly.

"Sorry, what was that?"

He looked up, into Demarci's face. "I don't want you to be my PR agent."

Kevin objected immediately. "But Senator Brandt—"

"I know, Kevin, I know," he replied, holding up his hands to placate the man who pulled at least half of the USO tour's strings. "He can be Captain America's PR agent, but not mine. I don't want my name attached to this. I don't want to be credited for being the man behind the mask. Or, if you need a name to stick there, make it… Roger Stevens, or something. I dunno. I just… I want to be more than a guy in a Star-Spangled costume. But I don't want to lose what privacy I have. Eventually, Senator Brandt is gonna get me to the front lines, and I don't want Captain America to follow me out there. I want to be Private Rogers, and work my way up the ranks, just like everyone else."

Kevin looked to Demarci, who offered an irreverent shrug. "It's doable. Plenty of actors use stage names. And when it comes down to it, the people want Captain America. They see him as something bigger than one man. He's a symbol. He could be anybody. And from the comments I heard in the audience tonight, that's part of his appeal. The enigma of his true identity will help sales."

That was all Kevin needed to hear. Anything that helped sales got automatic approval. "Fine! As long as Steve's happy, and we get those sales, you can use whatever names you want."

"Good," Demarci nodded. "Then it's settled. I will be Captain America's PR Agent, and Mr. Rogers can enjoy his anonymity."

"Since you're not _my_ agent anymore, please call me Steve."

"Alright, Steve." Demarci gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder that, a month ago, would have sent him sprawling. Now, all it did was give Demarci a stinging hand. "I have an office in Hollywood; come and find me there when the tour reaches California. I'll show you around the place."

"I'd like that."

"Of course you will," Demarci chuckled. "You're gong to love the dames in Hollywood."

Steve merely nodded. It seemed easier to play along than to try to convince the guy that he had no interest in Hollywood dames. That the only woman he wanted to spend any amount of time with, was halfway across the globe, doing the job he wanted to do more than anything else in the world. Fighting for freedom. Taking the battle to Schmidt. Living the dream Steve had aspired to since he was a kid. Doing the job he knew would make his parents proud.

Agent Carter, and Bucky. Two people Steve would have given anything to see, two people currently beyond his reach. When Brandt finally got him to the front lines, he would do everything he could to find them. He would greet them as Private Steve Rogers, and maybe, if he was real lucky, he could get there before they ever heard the name 'Captain America.'

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note #2: I've introduced a lot of OCs in this story, and I'm thrilled they've been so well received. Everybody seems to have their own favourite, and I love hearing what you guys like (or dislike) about the characters. In case you need (or would like) a recap on who's who before proceeding with the story, I've given below a brief overview of the main OCs to date, in the order in which they appear. Hope this helps/is useful._

o - o - o - o - o

 **Sergeant Wells** \- Bucky's fellow sergeant and foil. He's a smart-ass with an answer for everything, and has a moderate to severe Rita Hayworth obsession.

 **Private Tipper -** An underage kid who somehow managed to enlist. He has a habit of absent-mindedly flipping a coin over his knuckles. Nobody else has been able to replicate this feat.

 **Corporal "Carrot" Robbins** \- Terrible at poker, but generous at heart, Carrot will do anything for anyone, and is the most congenial guy in the regiment.

 **Corporal** **"Gusty" Ferguson -** So-named for his penchant for getting gassy when he gets nervous. He gets nervous a lot.

 **Private First Class Franklin -** Sparked the coffee-stirring incident back at Last Stop. Has a moderate to severe sugar obsession.

 **Private First Class Davies -** The 107th's go-to man, Davies is able to procure virtually anything desired, through means which are almost mystical.

 **Private Biggs -** A huge, methodical, mountain of a man. Routinely lashed to his camp bed every night by his fellow soldiers to stop him sleep walking onto a mine (or sleep-baking a cake).

 **Private Hawkins -** A young man just out of high school who joined to follow in his (now-deceased) big brother's footsteps.

 **Lieutenant** **"Dancing" Danzig -** An uptight, brown-nosing lieutenant who routinely makes the 107th's lives difficult. Motivated by love to get promoted to Captain.

 **Sergeant Weiss -** A straight-talking, grizzled Great War veteran, and senior sergeant of the 107th. Danzig's arch-nemesis.

 **Corporals Jones and Scott -** The two corporals under Weiss. We haven't seen much of them yet.

 **Lieutenant Nestor -** A nervous, twitchy lieutenant who's so afraid of Weiss (and life in general) that he rarely leaves his tent.

 **Colonel Hawkswell -** The Big Kahuna, often miffed that he has to defer to Colonel Phillips.

 **Privates** **"Tex" Robertson, "Mex" Hernandez, and Hodge -** Former candidates for Project Rebirth, now assigned to the 107th. Tex is a sharpshooter, and Mex is one of the most prolific camp gossips. Hodge is not an OC, but I'm listing him here anyway.


	21. Perfidy

_Author_ _'s note: Thanks to everyone for your reads, reviews, favourites and follows so far. To answer the question recently posed by guest reviewer 'LolWhaddup' — I see through your thinly veiled plot to get the pants sued off me by Marvel for copyright infringement. ;-) My story will never be published in anything other than fanfic form, all Marvel characters are intellectual property of Marvel and the MCU, and at no stage past, present or future will I receive compensation or payment for this story or the characters contained therein — unless Marvel hire me to write for them, of course. :-P_

 _Now, back to these guys._

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _21\. Perfidy_

Lieutenant Danzig was a man with a mission. It was obvious he relished that fact by the way he strode into the 107th's camp tent at six o'clock in the morning, hand-picked seventeen men, and instructed them to follow him to the command tent to receive important new orders. Ten minutes later, Bucky found himself standing in front of the scrutinising gaze of Colonel Phillips, who was flanked by Agent Carter and Howard Stark. Around him, sixteen members of the 107th looked like they were still in the process of properly waking up.

"Men," Phillips barked, making Gusty jump, "you have been selected to undertake an important and highly dangerous mission, so listen closely." _Selected?_ Volunteered by Dancing, more like. Phillips stepped aside to reveal a detailed topographical map pinned to a board behind him. "Approximately eleven klicks due east of our camp is a German communications bunker we have designated _Target Alpha-1._ By capturing _Alpha-1_ , we will be able to intercept Nazi communications being sent and received in this area. Agent Carter?"

Carter stepped up, her face cool professionalism despite every pair of eyes being on her. After her show of gumption at the bridge, Bucky thought she was tough as nails. That estimation was quickly being revised upward; now, she seemed as tough as the hammer. "Lieutenant Danzig will be leading the mission to capture _Alpha-1_. You'll go in three six-man teams, surround the bunker, and take it. The intelligence we have received on this bunker indicates it is manned by four German soldiers and one communications specialist. There are two main problems which you will need to overcome. The first is the presence of a _Maschinengewehr 42_ , which can be fired from a fortified structure atop the bunker and is manned by one soldier at all times." She strode the length of the room, hands held behind her back as she briefed the men. Bucky's old English teacher had done that, back in high school. Mrs. Simmons. She'd been tough as nails, too. She didn't so much recite poetry, as instruct it. "For those of you who aren't already aware, the MG 42 is one of Germany's more recent machine gun designs; successor of the MG 34, and far more lethal. It's capable of firing twelve-hundred rounds per minute, and if you end up in its line of fire, you'll be going home in pieces. Do not end up in its line of fire. Elimination of this threat should be a priority. As for the second problem… Mr. Stark will elaborate."

"The thing about communication bunkers is that they were built to communicate," Stark said. He took Carter's place in front of the map and folded his arms across his chest. For once, there was no trace of flippant humour in his brown eyes. "We don't expect the hostile forces in that bunker to stay quiet whilst you boys go about your business. Lucky for you, I'm a genius."

When Carter handed him a large metal case, he opened the catches and turned it around to show the gathered soldiers its contents; three strange-looking metal devices with some sort of small glass indicator in the middle of them.

"With the need for secrecy at the forefront of our mission here, I created these. They're short-range radio frequency interrupters—I've been calling them 'jammers' for brevity—which, when working in concert with each other, will block all incoming or outgoing enemy transmissions. Each team will take one jammer, and when you're in position, activate them using this button here, on the side. Anything caught within the triangle will go dark, as far as communications are concerned. It's vitally important that you only activate them when every team is in place. They have a very short battery life, so from the moment they're switched on, you have only fifteen minutes to secure the bunker. After that, the batteries will become depleted, the bunker will be able to communicate again, and the cavalry will come rushing in."

"To help co-ordinate the activation of these devices," Colonel Phillips picked up, like a well-choreographed Broadway show, "Mr. Stark has also come up with a design for a smaller handheld radio system to be used by the teams."

A second metal case was produced and opened, and Stark picked up the explanation.

"These operate at a much higher frequency than the German communications bunker, so they won't be affected by the jammers. But the higher frequency also means they have a much shorter range. They'll be effective at about five hundred metres; after that, the signal will start to break up."

"I cannot stress enough," said Phillips, "that the bunker's communications equipment must not be damaged in the assault. The radio dish, the receivers, the equipment inside the bunker… we need it to be in working order. Once you have the facility secured, report back here ASAP. Questions?"

Bucky looked around. He could see a lack of understanding on some of the faces present, but no hands were raised. An unpleasant smell winding its way through the command tent told him that Gusty more nervous than he'd ever been.

"Lieutenant Danzig," said Phillips, "why don't you brief your men on your orders?"

"Yessir!" Dancing saluted. He strode to the front of the tent, his back ramrod-straight as he aimed for every inch of self-important height he could get. "I will be leading Alpha Team, and Sergeants Barnes and Wells will lead Bravo and Charlie teams respectively. Once the jamming devices are in place, Alpha Team will advance as close to the bunker as we can safely get. Bravo and Charlie teams will withdraw to a distance to provide covering fire when the attack begins. Private Robertson, who will be assigned to Charlie Team, and Sergeant Barnes, will use their sniper rifles to take out the machine gun position atop the bunker, which will signal the rest of us to advance and take the facility. With the advantage of surprise, sharp-shooters and superior numbers, we should be able to capture the bunker with minimal casualties. Understood?" There was a round of 'yes sir.' "Good. You've time to gear up and grab a quick breakfast from the mess; we leave at oh-seven-hundred exactly."

Everybody saluted, and as soon as Phillips dismissed them, there was a mad scramble for the door flap.

"I don't understand, Sarge," said Carrot immediately. "We have tanks. Why don't we just blow that bunker to little pieces?"

"Or send in the howitzers," Franklin pointed out.

"I dunno," said Bucky. "I guess Phillips needs the equipment in the bunker for something."

"I wish I was out on recon, instead of Weiss," Wells sighed. "Then he could be here, rushing towards certain doom. Still, I guess it's good to be doing _something_ other than march and sleep."

"I'd be quite happy marching and sleeping for the rest of the mission," said Gusty. His face was pale, and Bucky sympathised. About the most exciting thing to have happened to them since landing in France was finding Matilda. With each quiet day that passed, each night of steady marching, he'd hoped for another one like it. Another day of staving off the inevitable. Once the first bullet was fired, they could never go back. There would be no quiet days. They would no longer be men waiting to join the war, but men embroiled in it.

When they got back to the regiment's tent, they found someone waiting for them.

"Sarge, please let me go on the mission!" begged Tipper.

"Not my call." Bucky clapped the young man on the shoulder. _And even if it was, I wouldn_ _'t let you go. Maybe all soldiers really are just big damn kids, but you're the youngest big damn kid in the regiment, and I'll be damned if I'm sending you knowingly into combat._ "Patience, Tipper. There'll be plenty of chances to get stuck in."

"It's not fair, Sarge. Just because I'm young, doesn't mean I can't handle myself in a fight."

"It isn't personal, Tipper. Mex didn't get picked to go, either. It's just the luck of the draw."

Tipper retreated to sulk somewhere private, and Bucky put him out of mind. He had bigger concerns right now than Private Tipper's bruised ego.

The assault team dressed fast. Combat uniforms were donned, pistols were holstered, knives were slid into belt scabbards, bandoliers were filled with ammo, and first aid kits were slung across shoulders. While the rest of the group gave their M1s the once-over, Bucky reached for the case which held the weapon he'd come to dread using. The SSR-01 always felt cold to his hands, and today was no exception. He knew part of that was his own imagination. Ever since realising how clearly he'd see his victims die with it, he'd imagined it as a cold, cruel instrument of death. In truth it was a precision weapon, and anybody he killed with it was likely to die much more swiftly and less painfully than anyone shot with an M1.

But that didn't mean he had to like it.

"Something wrong?" Wells asked him.

He quickly shook his head. If the rest of the team doubted his commitment, knew he was already regretting the lives he would inevitably take, they would lose confidence in him. The last thing any of them needed was to lose confidence. Not now. Not when they stood on the verge of their first combat mission.

"I've just never fired this thing at anything but a stationary target before," he explained.

"You're a good shot, even with a pistol. And that thing was designed by Stark."

The memory of a prototype flying car landing heavily on a stage amidst a cough and splutter of smoky fumes sprang into Bucky's mind. Wells was right. The SSR-01 was designed by Stark. Maybe it wouldn't even work properly. Maybe it would jam, or misfire, and then Bucky wouldn't have to kill someone. He couldn't be blamed for his weapon jamming, and nobody would ever have to know how dry his mouth got at the thought of pulling that trigger.

"Ah'm looking forward to seeing what this thing can do," said Tex. He lifted the rifle and sighted down it. "Just like huntin' coons back home."

"'Cept coons don't fire back," Wells pointed out. He clapped a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. I'm sure you won't miss. In fact, I'd put money on it."

Bucky gave a small nod, and attempted a grateful smile. _That_ _'s what I'm afraid of._

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

His mouth was dry, and no amount of water sipped from his canteen would provide relief. The eleven klicks had been covered in a little over two hours. Men who'd arrived in France seven days ago soft and untested, had quickly developed the stamina required for swift marching. Even the sun didn't affect them as much; it had already burned them raw, and now their faces were fading from red to brown, skin darkening where it was exposed to the harsh rays.

But Bucky's mouth wasn't dry because of the fast pace, or the hot sunlight. It was dry because through the lenses of his binoculars he could clearly see the small concrete bunker in the middle of the dense _Alpilles_ pine forest. Could see the heavy door. Could see the defensive machine gunner position atop the bunker. Could already taste death in the air. And death tasted suspiciously like pine trees.

"The machine gun is unmanned," said Dancing. His own binoculars were trained on the bunker, and a sort of nervous excitement suffused the air around him. "This changes things."

"We're not sticking to the plan, sir?" Bucky asked, while a tiny, relieved _Thank God_ raced through his mind.

"It's time for a new plan." He pulled out a map and lay it on the ground, examining the bunker from all angles. How the hell Phillips had got his hands on such a detailed map, Bucky had no idea, but he was starting to get the impression that whatever this mission was, it was bigger than he had initially suspected. The men in German uniforms, the tanks, Howard Stark, the intel, the need to capture rather than destroy a communications bunker… somehow, it was all connected. Somehow, Phillips was getting orders and intel from _somewhere_ , despite the fact that they were cut off from the rest of the army. Despite the fact that nobody else was in France right now.

Or at least, that was what Bucky had been told.

"The new plan," Dancing said at last, "is this. We'll still need to block their communications, but once we're in place and the jammers are activated, one of my team and I will climb up to the machine gun position and take possession of it. Once we're in place, we'll have a stronger advantage. Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Wells, you'll be able to storm the bunker and take it by force. If anyone tries to escape, or reach the machine gun position, I'll deal with them." He glanced down at his watch. "Let's check our radios are working."

Bucky suspected Dancing may have seen Stark's flying car demonstration, too. A genius the man might be, but his inventions didn't always function as they were supposed to, especially the prototypes. Maybe that was why Phillips had brought him out here. Maybe Stark was safer experimenting away from populated areas.

A quick sound-check showed that Stark's radios were more reliable than his flying cars. No sparking, no static; they gave a clear signal and were simple enough to operate even in the middle of a combat zone. Bucky could practically _hear_ Stark's internal monologue as he designed them. _These radios need to simple enough for a trained monkey to use; that should give those soldiers a decent chance at operating them._

"Sergeant Barnes, you'll approach from this direction," said Dancing. "I'll take Alpha Team and circle around to the east; Charlie Team, to the west. Radio silence until we get into position."

Dancing gestured for the five men of his team to follow him; Gusty, Hawkins and three of Weiss' men fell into line.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Bucky said quietly, as they watched Alpha Team leave. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on, just the feeling of something churning in his stomach, something more than the usual butterfly-nerves.

"Really? I've had a bad feeling since we left Last Stop," Wells replied. "I think you'd have to be crazy going into something like this and feeling good about it. And not crazy in a good way. Anyway, my team's got ground to cover." A smile tugged at his lips. "Two bucks says I make it into the bunker before you."

"Are you sure you wanna bet against me again? Last time you did that, you lost."

"I fancy my chances this time. And if you lose to me enough, it'll soften the blow of losing Rita to me when we get home."

Wells disappeared off to the west with Carrot, Tex, Franklin and another two of Weiss' men in tow, leaving Bucky with Hodge, Biggs, Davies, Corporal Jones and a private named Hartley.

"Stay sharp," Bucky told them. "Intel might say there's only a handful of Nazis, but it's best to err on the side of caution."

They crept forward, releasing a pine-fresh sent with each step that they crushed the fallen needles underfoot. In his mind's eye, he was already back at camp, working on his next letters home. _Dear Mom and Dad. Today I killed someone to the scent of pine. Dear Steve. You remember how you felt that time you threw up after riding the Cyclone with me? Well, I think I know how you feel. Dear Mary-Ann. How does it feel to know your big brother_ _'s a killer?_

He shook his head, trying to clear it of the macabre thoughts. Maybe it wouldn't have to be like that. Eighteen members of the 107th were going up against, at most, five Nazis. Not all the guns would be needed. Not all the bullets would count. Just like a firing squad. Not all the guns were loaded, so that nobody knew for sure which bullet had killed. No man was supposed to know for sure that he had blood on his hands.

But they said that a soldier could tell. That a gun firing bullets felt different to a gun firing blanks. That, in their heart of hearts, every man on a firing squad could tell whether he'd taken a life. That's what they said. Maybe it was the same for shooting in combat. Maybe a man could tell when his bullets found their marks. Maybe he just _knew_.

As they crept forward, the birds in the trees mocked them with normal, joyous calls. To the birds, this day was no different to any other day. They didn't care that Bucky's entire world was falling away into a river of blood. Birds cared nothing for humans shooting at each other. Killing each other. Birds were ignorant, and Bucky wished desperately that he was a bird right then, removed from what was happening and what had to happen before this day was over. Why couldn't he have a day of catching insects and pulling up worms for once? The birds had it so easy.

The bunker had the high ground, so Bucky crouched low as he advanced, bringing his team to a halt some fifty metres out from the facility. The machine gun was quiet, and the communication dish beside it was still. Maybe no-one was home. Or maybe it was a trap. False intel. The troops go rushing in and get ambushed. Bodies lay scattered across the forest floor, blood pouring out from—

" _This is Alpha Team, we're in position."_ Dancing's voice on the radio tore through the vision of bodies, making Bucky jump. _Get ahold of yourself, man. You can_ _'t get jittery now. The mission's counting on you to succeed._

"Bravo Team, also in position." He slung his rifle across his back and pulled out his pistol instead. The SSR-01 would only be a hindrance in such close proximity to their target.

" _Charlie Team, just moved into position,_ " Wells' voice said.

" _All teams, deploy jammers and prepare to activate on my mark,"_ Dancing instructed.

Hodge turned around to give Bucky access to the small musette bag he carried. From it, Bucky took the jamming device. Stark had given a demonstration on how to use it before the squad had left camp, and as seemed typical for many of Stark's inventions, it was surprisingly simple to operate. One button turned the device on, and pressing the same button again turned it off. Of course, Stark went to great lengths to explain how the device's interior was technically complex, but by that point, most of the 107th had started to get that glassy look in their eyes which suggested they'd switched off from listening.

He set the device on the ground and reported that his team were ready. Wells did the same, and Dancing offered one final command.

" _As soon as the devices are active, I'll take Corporal Ferguson up to the machine gun position. Once it's secure, I'll give the signal for the rest of you to advance. Now, prepare to activate the jammers. Three… two… one… mark."_

Bucky pressed the 'on' button. Held his breath. Sent a silent plea to the jammer. _Please don_ _'t be like the car, please don't be like the car._ A small green light winked to life, and he slowly released his breath. "Bravo Team's device is functioning as intended."

" _Charlie Team's jammer is A-OK,"_ said Wells.

" _And Alpha Team's is in play. Corporal Ferguson, you're with me. Everybody else, await my command."_

Waiting. Sometimes the waiting was enough to drive a guy insane. It was worse than the marching, because at least while on the march, the mind was occupied by watching its surroundings. Perhaps, when this was over—

The angry roar of gunfire tore through the afternoon peace, drowning out the birdsong and an agonised shriek of pain which set every hair on Bucky's body standing on end. He fumbled for the _transmit_ button on his radio, expecting at any moment to feel the spray of ground being torn up by gunfire around him.

"What's happening?" he demanded. Whatever was happening, it wasn't being aimed at Bravo Team. Small comfort.

He heard the sound of a door opening, and harsh German voices called out to each other, followed by more gunfire. Now, multiple guns were shooting at something. But shooting at _what_? He dared not stick his head above the natural earthen parapet his team were sheltered behind.

" _I don't know."_ Wells' voice over the radio, full of concern and confusion, was an immediate relief. _"Danzig, what's going on over there?"_

" _Sarge, we gotta problem."_ There was an edge of suppressed panic in Gusty's voice. In Bucky's mind, the corporal's face was wide-eyed and sweaty. _"Dancing's down. He took a machine gun hit to the chest as soon as he left shelter and took a step towards that bunker."_

"How bad is it?" Bucky asked him. Inside his chest, his heart was beating a fast tattoo. Trying to beat itself right out of his ribcage. His mouth, which had been dry to begin with, now felt like the Mojave desert.

" _Uh, he's not gonna be getting up. And we're pinned down. I can't stick my head over the top to see where the hostiles are, and we're getting stray bullets ricocheting around down here._ "

 _Shit._

This wasn't supposed to happen. The machine gun position had been unmanned. They'd all seen it for themselves. And now Dancing was down, probably dead, and he would only be the first. Soon, the ground would be littered with bodies, just like the image in his head had shown him. He'd spent every minute of the journey afraid he might have to kill someone; he'd never imagined that he might die.

" _Sarge, we need a new plan, and fast."_ The panic was still in Gusty's voice, but there was something else, too. Something Bucky had heard before. Heard it in his sister's voice, when the two of them, as children, whilst rambunctiously chasing each other around the house, had knocked a cupboard and sent Mom's antique family vase toppling to the floor where it shattered into a hundred pieces. _Bucky, what do we do?_ A plea for help. For guidance. For a way out. That vase had shattered, and he hadn't known what to do about it, so he'd taken the blame instead. Now, the mission was in a hundred pieces, and taking the blame wasn't good enough. If he couldn't find a way of gluing this shattered mission back together, more people would die.

 _Intel_. The lectures of Camp McCoy's drill sergeants came flooding back from six months ago. Before missions could be planned, intel was required. Nothing could be done without intel.

Slowly, cautiously, he pushed himself up, peering over the top of the embankment. Somewhere, Germans were firing on Gusty's position, but he couldn't see them from where he was. Up at the machine gun was a dark silhouette. One of the Germans must have been up there all along, hunkered down behind the sandbag fortification. Whoever was up there kept up a steady rate of loud fire; storming the bunker now was out of the question. Anyone trying it would be cut to shreds.

"Can anyone see where those Germans are firing from?" he radioed to the other teams.

" _Yeah,"_ said Wells. _"There's a trench protecting the bunker door, and they're in it. I count three in the trench, and one up top."_

Bucky had always loved puzzles. Logic puzzles, brain-teasers, crosswords… solving them, no matter what they were, had always given him a sense of achievement. Now, he tried to think of the mission as a puzzle. His team had superior numbers, but they were up against an entrenched enemy who had the high ground and superior firepower. Anyone trying to storm the bunker would be cut to shreds by the machine gun. Anyone trying to sneak up would find themselves in a trench with enemy soldiers. Because Phillips wanted the bunker intact, they hadn't brought grenades. No matter how he tried to solve it, his people ended up massacred.

" _Sarge, whatever you're planning, make it quick,"_ said Gusty. _"We're not doing too good over here. Hawkins looks like he's about ten seconds away from losing it."_

He looked to the faces of his teammates. The air of flippant irreverence was gone from Davies' face, replaced by a deep frown of worry. Hodge was maintaining his cool, but his face was a shade paler than usual, and his grip on his rifle had caused his knuckles to go white. Biggs, Jones and Hartley were focused on the forest around the bunker, as if they expected Nazi reinforcements to surround them at any moment. His teammates had no solution for this puzzle, and Bucky felt control of the situation, control of _everything_ , slip out of his grasp.

" _I've got a plan,"_ said Wells over the radio, _"but you're not gonna like it."_

 _At this stage, I_ _'ll take anything!_ Bucky thought. But he managed to keep the sheer desperation out of his response. "Let's hear it."

" _We surrender."_

"You're right, I hate that plan. We might as well just shoot ourselves."

" _It's not the whole plan. Listen, right now, Alpha Team's pinned down, but the Nazis don't know about us. I think I can make my way to Gusty's position, and we can fly one of those triangular bandages as a white flag. We'll get the rest of the team to play dead, like Dancing. The Krauts will stop firing and order us over the top to take us prisoner. Meanwhile, you and Tex withdraw to sniper range, and when those sons of bitches come out of the trenches to disarm us, you take them out. Take out the machine gunner, too. The rest of Bravo and Charlie teams get ready to move, and as soon as the gunner's out, they storm the bunker and take whoever's left inside prisoner."_

The thousand things that could go wrong played out in Bucky's mind in full Technicolor, a moving picture of disaster and bloodshed.

"That's a terrible plan, Wells. What if they decide not to take you prisoner and just shoot you as soon as you're in the open? What if we miss, and hit you instead of them? What if—"

" _Hey, I never said it was a_ good _plan. Sure, everything could go wrong, and I_ _'d love to sit here and debate about why those Nazis need to take us prisoner and interrogate us, and give you an 'I believe in you' pep talk, but we've got just under eight minutes on the clock, so either you come up with a new plan in thirty seconds, or we go with my plan. The only other alternative is retreat. Personally, I'd rather take a chance on my plan than go back to base and explain to Phillips how we left without even trying."_

"Fine. Your plan it is." Even a plan cobbled together out of sheer desperation and madness was preferable to going back to Phillips to report a failure.

" _Okay. I'm giving my radio to Tex, so the two of you can co-ordinate your targets. I'll contact you on Gusty's radio once I get to his position."_

And then Wells was gone, and Bucky wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. This wasn't just a terrible plan, it was one hastily lain. He hadn't had time to process it. Hadn't been given the chance to make sure his team knew their orders… hadn't been able to run through alternative scenarios in his head, to make contingencies and discuss what needed to happen if things went wrong. If he missed, if he hesitated, if his rifle jammed, Wells would die. Be a killer, or let a friend take a bullet. That was the choice Wells had given him, and he hated it.

"Wait until we start taking out the soldiers, then get into that bunker," he instructed Jones.

He turned, and ran. _Five hundred metres_. That was the operational range of the radio. Well within his SSR-01's firing range… he could only hope that Tex remembered that, too.

Though he stumbled several times, he somehow managed to stay upright as he sprinted through the trees, dodging trunks and low branches, leaping over rocks and other obstructions. When he finally stopped, his lungs worked overtime to pull fresh, pine-scented air into them. How far out had he come? Three hundred metres? It couldn't be any more than four. Far enough to use his rifle. Close enough to be within communications range.

He checked his watch. Five minutes and thirty-eight seconds. That was all they had to capture the bunker. Working quickly, he shoved his pistol back in its holster and pulled his rifle from over his shoulder. His own breath sounded ragged and loud, and he felt sweat trickle down his forehead from beneath his helmet. Every bit of him was burning up in the heat of that metaphorical desert… every bit of him except his hands. The rifle kept them cold. _Embrace me,_ it seemed to say. _Let me keep you cool._

 _No._

The moment he welcomed the feel of the gun in his hands, was the moment he stopped feeling bad about pulling the trigger and taking lives. On that day, he would no longer be himself. He wouldn't be his parents' son, or his siblings' older brother. And he would rather live with a heavy weight on his conscience, than give it up completely.

"I'm in position," he said over his radio. He pulled his rifle's scope to his eye and the distant forest leapt into focus, greatly magnified. It took him a moment to adjust, to find the bunker, and when he did he saw it all in such vivid details that it was as if he was standing right in the middle of it. He saw the trench, and German helmets peeping just above it. He saw the bunker door, and the communication dishes, and the fortified gunner position on the bunker roof. He saw the leaves on every tree and every pine needle on the ground. For a moment, it seemed like he was everywhere, and saw everything.

" _Ah'm in position too,"_ said Tex. " _And Ah got my eyes on that MG 42. Just say the word._ _"_

"Wait for Wells," Bucky told him. "If you take out the gunner before he has chance to get into position, we'll never get those Krauts out of that trench."

 _C_ _'mon, Wells,_ he thought silently. A quick glance at his watch showed him just under four minutes were left on the clock. They were cutting it fine. Too fine.

From his position, he couldn't see Alpha Team, but somehow, the Germans knew. Bucky kept his scope on the place the Nazis were aiming at. They didn't seem to care that their bullets were hitting more earth than flesh… but maybe they were waiting for the team to make a run for it. They'd already killed one man, and unlike the assault team, they had all the time in the world to kill another.

" _I've just reached Alpha Team,"_ Wells finally reported. _"We're sending up a flag now."_

Through his rifle's scope, he saw something white poke above the embankment and wave back and forth. A few bullets caught it, but when the Germans realised what it was, the guns finally fell silent. He was too far out to hear any words that were exchanged. Too far away to hear whether Wells called out to surrender, too distant to tell if the Germans spoke enough English to order whoever was still alive to leave their refuge and come out with their hands in the air. But those things must have happened, because Wells and Gusty slowly climbed over the bank of earth, neither of them carrying their rifles, both holding their hands up to show they were empty. In their eyes was a tightly-leashed fear, and through his scope, Bucky was right there with them, living every second of it.

He saw the Germans climb out of their trench, guns trained on Bucky's friends. One went to peer over the side of the embankment, to make sure no more enemies were hiding in ambush, and Bucky prayed to God that the rest of Alpha Team could convincingly play dead. A second German began disarming Wells and Gusty, ordering them to drop their pistols, their knives, and to remove their helmets and put them down on the ground. The third German soldier stood by on guard, his gun held ready to fire. Bucky focused on him as he stood watching, completely unprotected.

The third German had an uncertain face and blue eyes that watched his prisoners warily. He looked like any young man Bucky might pass on a New York street. Maybe the German was like Bucky. Maybe he had a Steve-like friend back home, who he pulled bullies off and looked out for. Maybe German-Bucky and German-Steve went to the movie theatre together, where they watched the German equivalent of _The Wizard of Oz_ and marvelled over how something as incredible as Technicolor could possibly exist in the world. Maybe this young soldier closed his eyes every night thinking of the girl he had back in Berlin, a German-Samantha waiting for him to get home and marry her so they could have their own family, raise their own children—

Something hit the young German's chest. A spray of red erupted even as the man was falling. The gun dropped from his lifeless hands. A wave of dizziness hit Bucky as he released the trigger of his rifle. Even as the bile rose up from his stomach, burning his chest, he adjusted his aim to the first German, the one who was behind Gusty and Wells, the one who had seen his companion go down and was now raising his own rifle to execute his prisoners.

This time, when Bucky squeezed the trigger, he hit the German in the side of the neck. The bullet went straight through, and the man dropped on the spot. In his ear, or maybe in his head, he heard Tex's voice. _Just like hunting coons back home._

In the clearing outside the bunker, there was movement. Through his scope, Bucky saw the last German reach for his pistol. Saw the man's hand flick the safety catch off. Bucky adjusted his aim to dead centre of the man's chest… but Wells was faster. Even as the second German had fallen, he'd stooped for his Colt. When he fired, it was at almost point blank range, and the German keeled over backwards as a loud _bang_ echoed through the forest.

A prickly cold sweat broke out on Bucky's face. It was done. The threat was over. With a shaky hand he lowered his rifle, took a deep breath, and finally gave in to the rising tide of nausea, emptying his stomach of everything he'd eaten that day.


	22. Into thy hands

We Were Soldiers

 _22\. Into thy hands_

It was a few minutes before Bucky felt steady enough on his legs to make his way back to the rest of the squad. After his stomach had finished emptying itself, he washed his mouth out with water from his canteen and wiped away the burning tears that being sick had brought to his eyes. Would it always be like this? Would he feel sick, and weak, every time he pulled the trigger of his gun? Did everybody feel like this, or was there something wrong with him? Was he somehow broken inside?

He covered the three hundred metres back in a weary, numb trudge, only remembering to pick his feet up and at least attempt to look pleased by the outcome of the mission as he caught sight of Hodge and Biggs marching at gunpoint a German prisoner they'd taken out of the bunker. They forced the man to his knees not far from his fallen comrades… probably on purpose. Stop him getting any ideas. The guy's face was pale and clammy, terror etched into every line.

The rest of the squad hadn't been idle; in pairs, they'd set up a defensive perimeter around the bunker, alert for any signs of German reinforcements. Somebody—he couldn't make out who—was manning the machine gun, whilst Gusty and Davies had the unpleasant task of stripping the dead men of their weapons and ammo. As he passed, Bucky kept his gaze up. He didn't want to see the faces of the men he'd killed. Didn't want to see their death masks. Didn't want to think about the families waiting back home for men who would never return.

"Where's Sergeant Wells?" he asked Hodge.

"In the bunker, securing the communications room with Franklin and Carrot. Left us to watch this guy." Hodge poked the German in the back of the shoulder with his rifle, and the man closed his eyes with a terrified whimper.

Great. Bucky could already hear the first words outta Wells' mouth. _See? Told you I_ _'d get in here first. That's two bucks you owe me._

The bunker's interior was cool and dark, a welcome relief from the heat of the day. He climbed down the stairs and followed the voices down the narrow corridor. Through an open door on the left he saw a four-man bunk room furnished with a couple of tall closets and a small shelf filled with books. The normalcy of it hit him like a punch in the gut. Apart from the flag that had been pinned to the wall—an eerie thing displaying a bare, blood-red skull above multiple sinuous tentacles, emblazoned across a black background—this could have been any bunk room, in any facility, even an American one. Despite the evil they fought for and maybe even believed wholeheartedly in, these had been regular men who'd done regular things, like sleeping and reading. And Bucky had snuffed out their candles.

Another door to the right turned out to be a small kitchen and living room, with racks full of canned food lining two walls. The labels were written in German, and there weren't any words that he recognised, but it wasn't difficult to imagine the medium-sized, uniformly stacked cans containing beans. Perhaps the larger cans carried potatoes, or ready-made broth. The small cans might have been fruit in a sugary syrup, and the jar-like cans with twisting lids could have been tea or coffee. A normal kitchen, just like the camp's mess stores. The racks were full, from top to bottom. Whatever the Germans were doing here, they evidently planned on staying a while.

At the end of the corridor he found the communications room. Franklin was sitting at the table, a pair of earphones over his head, while Carrot and Wells watched on. The room itself was full of equipment; lights flashing on metal panels, wires trailing everywhere, several microphones on the table… Stark would have a field day with this.

"Either they're ordering something with fries, or they're asking for a report about communications going dark," Franklin said. "I only did six months' of German, and that was pretty basic. You know, _'please hand me a yellow crayon'_ and _'the weather is sunny today.'_ Sorry Sarge, but I daren't report back in case we arouse their suspicions."

"Keep listening anyway. Maybe you'll be able to pick something up." Wells turned to Bucky and gestured for him to join him outside. When they reached the bunk room, Wells stopped and nodded at the strange flag. "Got a load of this?"

They took a couple of steps closer, to examine the flag in its surroundings. "Yeah. I've never seen anything like it. Would've expected a swastika up there. What do you think it means?"

"Not a clue. But it kinda reminds me of an octopus."

"Almost," Bucky agreed. "But an octopus has eight tentacles, not six."

Wells gave a small shiver. "Well, whatever it is, it gives me the creeps. C'mon, let's go make sure Hodge hasn't shot our prisoner." As they set off down the corridor, out of earshot of the others, Wells launched into a more formal report. "We did it with forty-five seconds to spare. The communications guy surrendered pretty quickly once he realised his soldier buddies were dead. I've got Jones up on the machine gun, Tex keep an eye on things from a distance, and the rest of the squad making themselves useful. Figured it's best they don't sit around staring at a bunch of dead bodies. Can't be good for morale."

"It was a good plan," Bucky acceded. When they stepped out of the bunker the sunlight assaulted his eyes, and he squinted at the harshness of it.

"And that was some good shooting. Between you and Tex, those Nazis didn't stand a chance."

"And you," he pointed out. "You managed to take the last one out before I'd finished aiming."

"Yeah, he didn't seem the 'surrender quietly' type. Lucky I had the presence of mind to take the safety off the Colt before they made me drop it."

Bucky stared at his friend for a long moment, searching for some sign of regret, some indication of guilt, some hint that pulling the trigger and ending a life had made Wells feel even a small measure of what Bucky had experienced. But there was nothing. No remorse, no regret, no self-doubt… and Wells didn't seem to have changed. He hadn't suddenly morphed into some heartless monster. He still looked like the same old Danny Wells.

So why didn't Bucky feel like the same old Bucky Barnes?

Suddenly, the answer hit him. Maybe the reason he felt like a part of himself was missing wasn't because he had taken a life. _Two Lives._ Maybe it was because of the death he _hadn_ _'t_ been able to prevent.

His feet carried him forward, towards the embankment where Alpha Team had been holed up before the shooting started. He didn't want to look. Didn't want to see someone he'd known in life, cold and lifeless in death. But when his feet brought him to the edge of the bank, when they stopped him above the fallen body, he forced himself to look. Forced himself to see the blood-soaked jacket, the holes ripped through flesh, and the face of Lieutenant Danzig, eyes closed, cheeks blood-spattered, mouth partly open as if he'd tried to say something at the moment he died.

"He had a girl," a voice said. "Waiting for him back home." It was his own voice. But it sounded odd. Disconnected. Like it came from some part of him that didn't know how to put feelings into words. Some part of him that needed to make noise, just so there wouldn't be silence. "Her father wouldn't let him marry her until he reached the rank of Captain. He didn't want anyone to know. Thought people wouldn't understand what he was fighting for. Guess it doesn't matter who knows, now."

"We lost a man," Wells said at last. "One. I don't know what the army's official policy is on acceptable losses, but I'm pretty sure this was inside that threshold."

"It's not acceptable to me." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realised how stupid they sounded. How childish. How naïve. This wasn't a fairytale. It wasn't a work of fiction, or a moving picture, or a Broadway show. It was real. It was life. It was war. People would die. People _had_ to die. That was how war worked. He'd known it when he signed on the dotted line, and he knew it still.

He just hadn't expected it to cut him so deeply.

"I need to… to… get his tag. To cover him up, ready for transport. And—"

He took a step forward, but Wells stopped him with a hand on his arm. For once, the humour was absent from his blue eyes. Instead, they were filled with concern, and Bucky didn't think it was concern over the dead. He spoke quietly, so that his voice didn't carry to the rest of the team who were undoubtedly doing their best to eavesdrop.

"I'll do it. I'll get his tag and fetch a blanket and cover him up. And I'll put a few of the squad on grave detail, so we can at least put those Germans in the ground. You go and report back to Colonel Phillips. He said he wanted to know as soon as the mission was complete."

That little flame of anger sprang to life inside him again. "I'm fine. I can handle this—"

"I know you can. But one of us has to report back, and after Matilda, I think you need a win more than I do. Besides, you gotta get Hawkins out of here. Sitting there beside Dancing, while Germans rained bullets down on them… it fried his nerves. You've got that big brother way of dealing with stuff like this. You know I'll only end up saying something inappropriate."

He searched Wells' face for any sign of bullshit, and found none. The flame of anger died away.

"Fine."

"Good. Do me a favour; take Hodge and Gusty, too. I don't like the way Hodge keeps eyeing that German, and Gusty will be a useful pair of eyes in case there are any more Krauts sneaking around out there."

Bucky wanted to object. To tell Wells that he didn't need more men, that he would be fine with Hawkins and didn't need babysitting, but he couldn't find a strategic reason for taking _fewer_ men with him, especially since their target was now secure.

"I'll be back in a few hours," he reluctantly agreed, and turned to issue orders to the rest of the team. "Hodge, Gusty, Hawkins, collect those jamming devices of Stark's. We're heading back to camp."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _It wasn_ _'t life or death for me._

The thought hit him a mile out from the camp. Wells had pulled the trigger of his pistol and felt no remorse because for Wells, it was do or die. He'd been there. Right there. In that clearing, with a German about to aim a gun at his head. It must have been terrifying, but Bucky thought it might have made the decision easier, and offered justification after the fact.

It hadn't been like that for Bucky. Nobody was aiming at him. Nobody even knew he was there. His own life hadn't been on the line. He'd had to talk himself into pulling that trigger, wasted precious seconds on disassociating himself from the act, because the outcome had been inevitable. He'd killed a man from a safe position, with no risk to his own life. And he should have felt happy about that. Should have been glad that someone who had tried to kill his friends, someone who had possibly shot Danzig, was now dead. But the only thing he could feel was a desperate wish to have been the one in the clearing, so that he could've used self-defence as justification to himself, too.

To his side, Hawkins was equally quiet, his gaze downcast. A couple of dozen paces ahead, Hodge was in point, whilst Gusty watched their six. None of them had said a single word on the journey back, and Bucky felt helpless all over again. It was the same helplessness he'd experienced back at Last Stop, when Hawkins got the news about Drew. The same helplessness he'd felt when Steve's mom had passed away. _A problem I can_ _'t fix, because nobody can fix death._

"Are you alright, Private?" he asked at last, because he had to start somewhere. Hawkins merely nodded. "Because it's okay if you're not. This was our first mission. I don't think anybody expected things to happen the way they did." _And I_ _'m so glad I kept Tipper out of it._

"It's war, Sarge," Hawkins said quietly. "I don't think things ever go the way we plan."

"True. All we can do, is do our best, and hope for the best. And we have to make sure the people we lose aren't lost for nothing." At that moment, he hated himself for telling the private what he thought he needed to hear. "If you ever need, or want, to talk about anything, just let me know."

"Thanks. I'll be okay. I just need some time alone."

Every plane of Hawkins' face said otherwise, but Bucky could hardly force the guy to talk about what was eating him up. He himself had kept things from others because he didn't want them to lose confidence in him. And, maybe, because if he started talking about everything that made him feel bad or uneasy, it might open a floodgate and never stop.

The camp sentries picked them up a hundred metres out from the perimeter and escorted them silently to the command tend. The escort was unnecessary; Bucky knew the way. He also knew that the sentries weren't escorting him because they thought he might get lost. This was the company's first combat mission. Bucky had either killed men, lost men, or both. However this mission had gone down, he and his team weren't in it alone.

Outside the command tent, Hawkins, Gusty and Hodge hung back with the sentries whilst Bucky went ahead. Both Phillips and Hawkswell were inside the tent, as were Agent Carter and Howard Stark. Bucky offered a salute, which was returned by both colonels.

"Sir, the mission was successful. Target _Alpha-01_ is under our control."

Phillips offered a grunt that might have been a little impressed. "Casualties?"

"Four Germans killed, one taken prisoner." Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat. Was there an easy way to report that your SO was dead? Was there an easy way to report that _anyone_ was dead? "Lieutenant Danzig… he didn't make it, sir. Took a hit to the chest from that MG 42."

"A shame," Phillips said, more to Hawkswell than to Bucky. "He showed promise. Is the communications room undamaged, Sergeant?"

"Yessir," he said. His mind immediately went to the flag in the bunk room. It was incongruous, and anything incongruous should be reported. "There was something else. They had a flag on the wall in their bunk room. It wasn't a swastika, or even the German national flag. It was… well, it looked a little like an octopus, sir," he offered lamely. "Red, on a black background, with six tentacles."

The colonel glanced up at Agent Carter and Howard Stark, and some silent communication passed between the three of them. That was when Bucky finally realised how many steps ahead Colonel Phillips was: _a whole damn lot_. He'd not only known about the German base, wherever that was, he'd known about this bunker, and he'd even known about that damned flag. Not just that it would be there, but also what it meant. He knew, and Carter knew, and Stark knew, and they weren't going to enlighten him. He could tell by the blank expression on Hawkswell's face that the group's second colonel wasn't in on the secret… maybe _this_ was the SSR's mission. Maybe it had something to do with this flag—or what it represented.

"Sergeant, you will fully debrief me en route to the bunker. Agent Carter, go prepare our package. Stark, grab whatever equipment you think you'll need. And send somebody to alert the medical staff they're on body retrieval duty." The pair scrambled into action, and Phillips turned back to Bucky. "Two of your men will drive the jeeps that will take us back to the bunker. I trust I'm not going to find any 'minor' surprises when I get there, am I? No babies? No homeless families looking for shelter? No lost puppies?"

Bucky bit his tongue. "No, sir."

"Good. You're with me, Sergeant. Tell me everything that happened out there."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The forest terrain was jeepable, so getting back to the bunker didn't take as long as the journey back to camp. Gusty was at the wheel, and Bucky sat in back with Phillips as he recounted the details of the mission. Phillips sat mostly in silence, asking a few questions here or there, but he made no notes and asked for no official reports to be filed, which made Bucky wonder whether the SSR—and by extension, the 107th—was officially in France at all.

When they reached camp, the first thing he noticed were the four mounds of earth that had grown out of the ground outside the bunker. Looking closer, he realised the mounds were the piles of soil from four long, deep holes that had been dug. Half a dozen of the team were dirt-stained and sweaty, but they all stood to attention as the colonel stepped out of the jeep.

"As you were," Phillips said, and the men who were digging went back to their task.

Bucky had been expecting Phillips to make a beeline for the communications room, since he'd made such a big fuss about capturing the thing intact. Instead, he strode up to the German prisoner and looked down on him as if passing judgement there and then. The prisoner's eyes darted back and forth, and when he saw the second jeep pull up, and saw who was getting out of it, those darting eyes went wide with fright. It wasn't Hodge who frightened him. It wasn't Agent Carter, or Howard Stark. It was the man in the German uniform, who looked around with an air of casual indifference, as if seeing graves being dug for Nazi soldiers was something that happened on a daily basis.

"Is this the prisoner?" Phillips asked Wells, who was eyeing the second jeep with a sort of wary curiosity.

"Yes, sir. Oberleutnant Hans Weber, according to the bunker's staff log."

"You speak any English, Oberleutnant?"

"Ja, ja, speak English," the prisoner nodded quickly.

"Good. You'll come with me."

"Come… where?"

"To talk," Phillips said. "In private. Sergeants, get these holes finished on the double."

The colonel didn't bother waiting for a salute; he frogmarched the prisoner into the forest and out of sight. Letting the colonel go _anywhere_ alone with a German soldier seemed like a phenomenally bad idea, but before he could say anything to that effect, Agent Carter breezed past, and the smell of her perfume—how the hell had she managed to get _that_ out here?!—momentarily distracted him. The man in the German Officer's uniform followed her, and Stark followed him, carrying an armful of equipment into the bunker's dim interior.

A third jeep pulled up and out hopped a team of medics. When they unzipped a long, grey body-bag, everybody stopped still, every pair of eyes following them as they made their way to the place where Danzig had fallen.

"Get those damn holes finished!" Bucky snapped at them. They jumped to obey. Weren't used to hearing him snap like that. He told himself he snapped because the last thing Danzig would have wanted would be everybody staring at his dead body being manhandled into a bag like that. Told himself it wasn't because he didn't want the rest of the men to see it and imagine themselves in Danzig's place. He had to try and keep morale up, and if that meant hounding the troops with work so they were too busy and exhausted to think about dying, then so be it.

"What'd Phillips say when you told him about Dancing?" Wells asked. "And who's the guy with Agent Carter? And how's Hawkins doing?"

"Not much, I don't know, and he says he's okay."

"Do you think—"

 _BANG. BANG. BANG._

Everybody outside the bunker jumped practically out of their skins at the sound of gunfire, Bucky included. His heart, which had finally settled into a regular rhythm after the stress of the mission, started racing again, and he palpably felt the adrenaline spike in his body. The tips of his fingers, which had automatically gone to his hip at the sound, brushed against the handle of his Colt.

"The hell was that?" Wells demanded, his blue eyes wide and as panicked as Bucky felt inside.

"I… think it was our prisoner."

Worst case scenarios ran through Bucky's mind like an unstoppable herd of galloping horses. The prisoner had attacked Phillips, overpowered him, taken his gun, and shot him. Another Nazi had been lurking nearby, and had shot the colonel so the prisoner could escape. There had been a scuffle, and in a fight for the weapon, the colonel had been shot.

Bucky set off at a sprint in the direction Phillips had taken, with Wells beside him. A flash of movement between the trees forced them to skid to a halt, and as they reached the tree line, Phillips stepped out, his face stony as he holstered his pistol.

"The prisoner attempted to escape," he said. "Due to the security threat he posed, I was forced to shoot him to maintain our secrecy. We're going to need another hole, Sergeants. See that it's done, whilst I check in with Agent Carter."

After Phillips was out of earshot, Bucky turned to his friend and lowered his voice so that only Wells could hear.

"What do you think the chances are that the prisoner _actually_ tried to make a run for it?"

"Slim. Very slim." Wells' face was a shade paler than usual. "But why would the colonel lie?"

"Diabolically clever!" somebody exclaimed from behind. Turning on the spot, Bucky spotted Stark striding out of the bunker. Apparently oblivious to the private conversation, and to the men digging holes nearby, Stark climbed up to the machine gun position and added, "Fiendishly brilliant." He peered over the side of the fortification, his brown eyes falling on Bucky and Wells. "You two. Can you see a thin wire running down the side of the bunker?"

Bucky wanted to tell Stark to do his own damn work. That he had more important things to be worried about. But on the other hand, anything that impressed _Stark_ had to be noteworthy. So, he stepped forward and looked for a wire; he found it running down the side of the door frame. A thin, greyish-white wire that blended in well with the concrete.

"Yeah."

"You should see it go down into the ground," said Stark.

"It does."

"Pull it up, and follow it."

Bucky looked to Wells, who shrugged. Together, they found the wire's entry point into the ground, and pulled it up. Only a thin layer of soil and pine needles covered the wire, so they were able to easily trace it to a tree. The wire was wound up the trunk, and about eight feet up, terminated in a small round object.

"Whatever that thing is, get it down for me," Stark instructed.

 _Who died and made you the colonel_?

Bucky winced at his own mental complaint. Only hours ago, men had died. He shouldn't make light of death; it wasn't right. With Stark watching, he grabbed his rifle, which was slung across his back, and used the long weapon to push the object out of the tree. Wells caught it before it could smash on the ground, and Stark was out of the gunner position and snatching it out of Wells' hands before Bucky could even shoulder his rifle again.

"Ahh, yes," Stark mused aloud, his eyes dancing over the object. "Just as I thought."

"What is it?" Bucky asked. If he was doing Stark's menial work, he at least wanted to know what he'd just salvaged.

"This is some sort of detector. It was rigged up to the machine gun. I suspect it detects movement, or heat sources, or something similar, and it automatically fires the gun at whatever it detects. That's how your lieutenant was killed so quickly. Technology can react faster than human reflexes. I suspect after the gun was triggered, the gunner disabled the detector… switched off the auto-pilot, if you will… and took over firing. I'll have to try and find a way to counteract this defence for next time."

" _Next time?_ " asked Wells.

Something like guilt flickered across Stark's face as he looked up and finally realised he was talking to actual people, and not just himself. "I mean, hypothetical next time. Just in case. Be prepared, and all that."

Bucky opened his mouth. "But—"

"Sorry, can't talk now. Stuff to do." And with that, Stark disappeared back into the bunker, and Bucky knew he'd get nothing else out of the guy.

By the time Phillips returned from the depths of the bunker, the five holes were in the process of being filled. Bucky hadn't known if there were customs to follow, if anything special needed to be done with the enemy soldiers before putting them in the ground, so he simply helped the men to lower the bodies in, then joined one of the teams covering them with earth.

"Sergeants," said Phillips, pulling Bucky and Wells away from grave duty. Behind him came Agent Carter, with Howard Stark bringing up the rear, his arms filled once more with various pieces of tech which he took to one of the jeeps. The bunker door was closed behind him, with no sign of the fourth person who'd gone down there. "I'll need four of your men to accompany us back in the jeeps. When you're done here, get back to camp, double time. There will be a service for Lieutenant Danzig at sunset, and then we'll be moving the camp to a new location."

"Yessir," Bucky saluted. Then, because inherent curiosity had always been one of his greatest strengths and weaknesses, asked, "What about the… err… the other man, sir? The one in the German uniform?"

The expression on Phillips' face was blank. Not _carefully_ blank or _guardedly_ blank, but _obviously_ blank. "I don't know what you're talking about, Sergeant. Now, get these bodies buried, then get back to camp. Come and see me in the command tent when you arrive. Both of you," he added ominously.

Colonel Phillips was clearly not a man who wanted to hang around. Bucky assigned four of the team who'd been digging holes all afternoon to accompany the colonel back in the jeeps, then resumed shovelling dirt with his entrenching tool. Not looking at the faces was even harder while he was burying them, but he fixed his gaze on the small, silver buttons of the dull field-green jacket and focused on shovelling and _not seeing_. It was easier that way.

When they were done, they stood in silence for a moment, staring over the graves of their fallen enemies. Bucky gave them that moment while Wells brought down Jones from the gunner position, and gestured for Tex—still keeping watch somewhere out there with his rifle—to return to the group. When they were all together again, they set off back to camp in silence.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

By the time they reached camp, Bucky was tired and aching in new and exhausting ways. He'd done three swift eleven-klick marches, which now made his legs feel like jelly, and had helped to shift dirt with his short-handled entrenching shovel, which had made his neck and shoulders ache something awful. Like most of the team he was hot, sweaty and dirt-stained, and to make matters worse, his boots had started chafing his heels halfway back to camp. All he wanted was a cold wash, a hot meal and a solid eight hours' sleep. At most, he suspected he could rely on the meal. Everything else was a wistful longing.

"So," said Wells, as he and Bucky gave their weapons to Gusty and Carrot, for taking back to the regiment's tent, "do you think we'll get a sarcastic chewing-out, or a shouty one?"

"You think we're gonna be in trouble?"

"How often does the colonel summon us _both_ to see him? On a day when we lose our SO on a mission, no less?"

"I see your point." Bucky's heart started a slow sink downward, to somewhere around his blistered heels.

A corporal stationed outside the command tent halted Bucky and Wells at the entrance while Colonel Phillips finished whatever private meeting he was having. When they were eventually admitted, they both saluted and stood to attention. _Sarcastic_ , Bucky guessed. Phillips seemed the sarcastic kind.

"Sergeants," he barked at them. The only reason Bucky didn't jump was because he was too exhausted for it. "I don't like losing men. I like losing officers even less. You lost a man today. You lost an officer."

"Yessir," they both agreed. Bucky's gaze was already fixed to the back of the tent, over Phillips' shoulder, and he didn't dare alter it by even a millimetre.

"But… it could have been worse. Stark told me about the tech the Nazis were using; the detector which picked up Lieutenant Danzig moving and gunned him down. Your first combat mission, and you lost your SO. Some men might have broke, at that. Thrown more lives at the problem in the hope of overwhelming the enemy, or returned to base with their tails between their legs. But you kept your heads, you got the job done, and you didn't suffer any further losses. I'm putting you both up for a commendation, whenever we get back to somewhere civilised."

When Bucky's mouth tried to fall open, he clamped his jaw shut tight. _Commendation_? It was a far cry from the chewing-out he'd been expecting. Nothing like the judgement of, _'What you did is perfidy, so I'm busting you back to buck privates for the remainder of the war,'_ that he knew he rightfully ought to receive. In his heart of hearts, he knew he didn't deserve such an accolade… but he knew that if he tried to argue, Phillips would just tell him to stop trying to be modest.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

"There is nothing to thank me for, Sergeant," the colonel said. "I don't give hand-outs, and I don't do favours. I reward success, expect lessons to be learnt from failure, and punish behaviour which falls below my expectations. Today, you had a success. Start as you mean to go on." Phillips stopped in front of them, briefly assessing them with his cool gray eyes. "Now, you've got time to get washed and fed before dark. Dismissed, Sergeants."

They saluted again and departed. As soon as Bucky was outside the tent, a sigh of relief escaped his lips. Some of the tension he'd been carrying across his shoulders evaporated like the morning mist.

"Well I'll be damned," said Wells.

"I don't deserve it," Bucky said quickly. He couldn't say it to Phillips, but he could say it to his friend. _Had_ to say it to his friend, because it was praise he didn't deserve. "It was your plan. You came up with it while I was floundering in the mud."

"I might have come up with the plan, but you were the one who pulled it off," said Wells. "If you'd missed either of your targets, it would have gone badly. Besides, it only went so smoothly because you backed it. The rest of the team trust you to do the right thing. You know how my crazy ideas are; it could have gone the other way, easily. But you made it a success."

"We all did. Everyone stepped up to the plate."

"You're too damn self-effacing for your own good," Wells scoffed. "We got a commendation; be happy about it! Whether you want to believe it or not, you deserve it."

"Alright," he said. He could try to be happy about it. And tonight, he would write home, tell his folks and Steve about it. They'd be happy for him, too. But first he owed his friend an apology. His conversation with Hawkins, from a few hours ago, had been sitting on the sidelines of his thoughts, waiting to be called into play. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said the other day in Aureille. For giving you a hard time about Hawkins."

"Don't worry about it," his friend shrugged. "It's under the bridge."

"Still, I shouldn't have gone off at you like that. I know you were doing your best under difficult circumstances. I took it personal. I imagined myself in Hawkins' place, losing a brother, and got angry at the thought of someone lying to me. But I'm not Hawkins. It wasn't my brother, and sometimes I forget how young Hawkins is. So… I'm sorry," he finished lamely. "Will you forgive me for being a jerk?"

"Lemme ask you something," Wells countered. "How many times have I been a jerk to you, since Last Stop?"

"I dunno… a whole bunch?" It wasn't like he was keeping count. Didn't have enough fingers to keep count on. Probably not even if he added his toes.

"Exactly. So as far as I'm concerned, there's nothing to forgive. You might've been a bit of a jerk back in Aureille, but you were speaking your mind and being honest. And _you_ _'re_ the one who wanted no sugar-coating, right?" Bucky nodded. "Then there's nothing to worry about. I don't expect any apologies from you for being a jerk, as long as you don't expect them from me. And I'll tell you if you're out of line, like you told me I was out of line with Carrot, on the _Monty_. Sound fair?"

"I guess it does," he agreed.

"Good." Wells clapped him on the shoulder. "C'mon, pal, why don't we—"

"Excuse me!" A slightly-built blond-haired soldier, a few years older than Bucky and bearing a first-lieutenant's gold bar on his sleeve, trotted up to them. The guy's face was familiar, and Bucky thought he'd seen him walking around camp, but he couldn't recall if he'd ever heard the lieutenant's name. "Sergeant Barnes? Sergeant Wells?"

"Yes, sir?" Wells asked, a mask of patience replacing the stirrings of irritation.

"Oh, good. I was worried I'd got the wrong men." His light brown eyes scanned their faces as if searching for something. "I'm so sorry about your mission. It's never easy to see a fellow soldier fall. I just wanted to extend my services to you. In case you'd like to talk about what happened. Talk in the strictest confidence, of course."

"Um… who are you?" Bucky asked him.

"Oh. Very sorry. Lieutenant Thomas Olliver, Army chaplain." The lieutenant turned his head to show the small silver cross on his collar.

"I didn't know we had a chaplain. How long have you been with the company?"

"Since the SSR left England." Lieutenant Olliver immediately offered an apology on their behalf. "Of course, you've only been with us for a week, and you've had quite a busy week, what with finding that baby and now your mission today, so I wouldn't have expected you to know I was here. I hold services every morning and evening in the small church tent. I usually set up behind the hospital tent; it means I don't have as far to go if… um… well, never mind about that. I'm Catholic, but my services are open to all denominations, so you're quite welcome."

"Thanks," said Wells, "but going to church is against my religion. I'm…" his eyes darted back and forth as he searched his memory, "…Sikh."

Lieutenant Olliver stared at Wells as if he was mad.

"Don't mind him," Bucky told the chaplain. "We'll keep your advice in mind, but we really need to go get cleaned up and fed before the service for Lieutenant Danzig. Are you leading it, sir?"

"Yes. We'll be starting at sundown. And please, don't let me keep you. If you'd like to talk about what happened, you can find me the next time we make camp."

They both saluted as the chaplain departed, then set off for the small stream which wound its way around the side of the camp. "Can you believe that guy?" Wells asked. "Why would we wanna talk to him about what happened?"

Bucky merely shrugged. Talking to someone about the things on his mind didn't seem like such a bad idea. In the past, he'd had Steve to talk to, but Steve wasn't here. Steve was safe at home, far away from bullets and missions and death. And although Bucky had made friends, those friends relied on him to be strong. To keep his head. To not have fears, or doubts, or second-thoughts.

Maybe the chaplain could offer a little guidance. Help to ease his conscience. Maybe even help him find a way to live with the lives he had taken.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

When Sarah Rogers had died of tuberculosis, killed by the illness she had helped strengthen others to battle, the number of people attending her service had been heart-breakingly small. Bucky and Mary-Ann had been there, along with Mom and Dad; Steve was like family to them, and Steve's mom had been a good family friend for years. Steve's uncle had travelled down from Canada to attend the service, along with some long-lost ageing great-aunt who'd turned up wearing a pink hat with long peacock feathers sticking out of the top, and kept calling Steve 'Stuart'. Some of Sarah's friends had been there, along with a group of doctors and nurses from the ward where she'd worked. Thirty-six people had sat themselves in the first three rows of the church, leaving the rest of it hauntingly empty. At the time, it hadn't seemed fair that such a wonderful woman should pass from the world, attended by so few.

Lieutenant Danzig's funeral was very different. He was their first casualty of war; the first man to die on this mission. All eight hundred and seventy four personnel turned out for the service. Few of them had known Danzig, and even fewer had actually _liked_ the guy, but everybody wanted to pay their respects to the first of their comrades to fall in the line of duty. The 107th had the front lines, and behind and to the sides of them came the men of the 69th and 370th Infantries, white faces and dark faces united in a fleeting moment of consolatory grief.

Behind them were the Engineers and the Signals, the depleted 9th Infantry, the doctors and nurses of the Medical Corps, the Quartermaster and his staff, and the cooks who rarely ventured far from the mess tent. Agent Carter and Howard Stark stood beside Colonels Phillips and Hawkswell, their faces pale and somber.

Lieutenant Olliver delivered a moving service; talked about honour and loss, about duty and sacrifice. All Bucky could think about was the woman waiting back in the States; the girl whose beau would never come home as a Captain to ask for her hand in marriage. As the chaplain told them how Lieutenant Danzig had been delivered into the hands of the Lord, Bucky decided to write to Rachel. To tell her how Danzig had spoken often about how much he loved her and would do anything for her. To tell her the things she needed to hear. To maybe make it a little easier for her to face tomorrow alone.


	23. What happens in the foxhole

We Were Soldiers

 _23\. What happens in the foxhole_ _…_

"I feel like… I dunno. I guess now that I think about it, it's hard to put it into words without sounding like a crazy person. And I'm not crazy. Contrary to what some people might have told you."

"Nobody's told me you're crazy," the chaplain said. "Why don't you just start at the beginning? How long have you been feeling this way?"

Bucky cast his mind back. In the three days since the mission on which Danzig had bought it, he'd attended at least one of Lieutenant Olliver's sermons each day, and had been surprised—though in hindsight, probably shouldn't have been—to find Carrot already a regular there. He'd sat beside the corporal, listened attentively to Olliver's religious missives, and tried to find something in them to help him reconcile the conflicted thoughts and emotions within him. After three days of finding nothing, he decided he need a more personal touch. The chaplain had an honest, open face which lent itself easily to trust.

"When you say, 'talk in private,' how private do you mean?" Bucky asked him. "You're not gonna tell any of this to the brass, are you?"

"Unless you confess to being an enemy spy, I'm largely bound by oaths to keep anything you say confidential."

"Okay." Some small relief. At least Lieutenant Olliver wasn't gonna rush off to tell the colonels that one of their sergeants had frosty feet. Relaxing into a collapsible chair in the small chaplaincy tent, he tried to explain his feelings. "Well, I guess I've been feeling this way since we got to England. Since we got our orders to ship out here. Even then, the thought of shooting people, of killing them, it made me feel kinda queasy. Right before we engaged the Krauts on the mission a few days ago, I felt light-headed. Dizzy."

"That's a normal physical response to stress."

"But it wasn't the stress of combat that made me like that. In fact, once the shooting started, my head cleared a bit. But afterwards, I felt bad. Like I'd done a bad thing. Which I know is stupid, because I saved lives. The mission was a success. But I feel bad about it. That's stupid, right?"

The chaplain gave him a genuine, reassuring smile. "Not at all. I would be far more worried if you were killing without regret. Your feelings show that you have compassion, and your actions show that you are willing to put duty ahead of compassion when the situation warrants it. What advice did your family priest offer, after you signed up?"

"Oh." He toyed with a button on his shirt for a moment. Tried not to fidget. "I hadn't been to church much, before shipping out. I meant to. I used to go a lot as a kid. But… you know… distractions. I went when I could, but not regularly. I was just… kinda busy," he finished lamely. When had been the last time? Christmas. He was sure it had been Christmas. His family always went to late night Mass together. Since then, thoughts of church had fallen by the wayside. He'd been to the cemetery once or twice with Steve, to lay a wreath on his parents' graves… but that didn't count. Not really.

"Well, it's good that you're taking a renewed interest in the Lord now," Olliver said. "I'm sure that, in time, I can help guide you back onto the path. You'll feel much better."

Bucky sat up in his chair. It creaked ominously beneath him. "In time? I was kinda hoping you could help me feel better sooner, rather than later. And by 'sooner,' I mean, before the next mission. I don't wanna feel this way, Father. I don't want to doubt myself before every mission, and feel like cr—I mean, feel bad afterwards. I feel like I'm letting the rest of my team down."

"I'm afraid there's no quick fix for a guilty conscience, but you can rest assured that you have not fallen out of the Lord's favour. So long as you continue to walk in His light, you do not need to fear for your soul."

"It's not my soul I'm worried about," he sighed. He should'a known he'd be on his own with this. Maybe tonight, he'd write a letter to Steve. So far, Steve hadn't replied to any of his letters, but that probably just meant they were stuck in some V-mail censoring office. It wasn't as if they were routinely able to access post out here, either. He wouldn't get a reply from Steve before the next mission, but maybe just writing his thoughts to his friend would be the catharsis he needed.

He stood and offered a salute. "Please excuse me, Father. I have an appointment with Mr. Stark round about now."

"Of course. I hope to see you for service tomorrow morning."

"Unfortunately, I have guard duty tonight, so I won't be able to make the morning's service. But I'll ask Corporal Robbins for the highlights; he really enjoys your sermons."

After excusing himself, he returned to the 107th's tent, which was mostly unoccupied. Three or four soldiers were napping, their snores soft and slow, and Wells was on his bed, writing out a letter with painstaking precision. He glanced up as Bucky entered the tent, his blue eyes full of unspoken disapproval.

"Found God yet?"

"Several times," Bucky lied. "He says hello, by the way." He nodded at the paper on Wells' bed. "Letters home?"

Wells snorted loudly. "No."

"Then what're you doing?"

"Possibly making one of the world's biggest mistakes." He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and blinked several times in the fading light. "Gusty's got this thing for one of the nurses. Apparently he's been carrying a torch all week and has finally worked up the courage to do something about it."

"Okay," said Bucky, taking a seat on his bed. This convoluted story would, eventually, lead to an answer for his question, and he'd learnt the importance of patience by now.

"But Gusty, being Gusty, can't just go and talk to the woman, because that would upset his stomach, so he's decided to write her a letter. Something she can read in the fresh air."

"Lemme guess; he doesn't know what to say, so you offered to pen something for him?"

"On the contrary. He knows exactly what he wants to say. And here it is."

Wells handed a piece of paper over, and Bucky stared at the scrawl. It was like a dozen spiders had knocked over an ink pot and then assaulted the paper in a frenzy of scrabbling legs. Bucky's handwriting wasn't particularly flashy, but at least it was legible.

"What does it even say?" he asked, handing it back.

"That's exactly why I'm writing it out for him." Bucky glanced over the writing Wells had started to pen. The letters were neat, of uniform size, and the lines were perfectly straight. "First thing you learn when doing accounts is to write neat for official documents," Wells explained, before he could ask.

"Which nurse?"

"I'm not sure. All I know is it's not Nurse Sanders, and that's enough for me."

"Which one's Nurse Sanders?" So far, Bucky hadn't had the opportunity to talk to the nurses, except for that brief time when they'd been looking after Matilda. Perhaps it was time to go for a medical checkup.

"The one with the green eyes. And you stay away from her; I saw her first."

"What happened to Agent Carter?"

"A guy can't have a Plan B?" Wells grinned. "Speaking of, you missed Agent Carter about ten minutes ago. I spotted her passing by the tent. Asked her if she wanted to spend the night in a foxhole with me."

Bucky studied his friend's face. He couldn't _see_ any bruises, which probably meant her response hadn't been too hostile… unless she'd aimed low. Some people were dirty fighters like that, and he very much suspected that Agent Carter was a dirty fighter.

"What'd she say?"

"Another scathing rebuttal." Wells shrugged, as if it was of no consequence. "I'll wear her down, eventually."

"And if you don't?"

"I will seek the comforting atmosphere of the hospital tent, of course."

"Of course." He reached beneath his bed's flimsy frame to pull out the SSR-01 in its case. "I gotta go get this serviced. Wanna come?"

"Naw. Stark hates me."

"You think _everybody_ hates you."

Wells nodded, a solemn expression on his face. "It's a conspiracy. With Stark, I can't figure out whether he hates me for my higher than average intellect, or my luck with dames. It could be both."

"Maybe it's your ego."

"Maybe." Wells kicked another case that was propped up beside his bed. "Tex left this, asked me to ask you to get it serviced along with yours."

"Where's he gone?"

"Down to the river, with the rest of the regiment." Wells put the cap on his pen and propped himself up on his side. "The 69th challenged us to an old-fashioned tug o' war, and everybody who wasn't already asleep went to watch how it turns out."

"So why aren't you down there? You love wiping the floor with the 69th."

"In things that require actual skill, yeah." He offered a small, unconcerned shrug. "Brute strength isn't really my thing. We've already got Tex, Carrot and Biggs out there… besides, I wanted to try and get this letter finished before it got too dark to see."

"Oh, sorry. I'll go take these guns to Stark and leave you to it." He picked up both cases and halted by the tent flap on his way out, a smile creeping across his lips. "But it's nice to see you helping Gusty out. You must be going soft in your old age."

"Barnes, you insult me," Wells scoffed. "Gusty paid me in smokes for my translation services. You may be having a bad influence on me, but I'm not a _complete_ patsy."

"Right," he chuckled. "Don't get too comfy; you've got a date with a foxhole in a couple of hours."

"Don't remind me."

Bucky left his friend to his writing and set off across the camp. Each time they set up the tents, Stark insisted on being in the middle of the camp. Claimed it was to make it harder for him to be assassinated; any would-be assassins would have to sneak past the guard posts, and the regimental tents, before making it to his location. Bucky suspected the real reason was that Stark liked to be in the middle of the things, close enough to get involved and hear any gossip that might be doing the rounds. Plus, it was far enough away from the latrine pits that there was no noticeable smell.

If only Stark had gone to watch the tug of war, too. For three days, Bucky had managed to put off seeing the guy. Now, his rifle was due for servicing, and he couldn't put it off any longer. He was finally gonna have to tell Stark that he'd made an excellent weapon with which to kill people.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"I'm going to gouge your eyes out!" growled Tipper, his face a menacing scowl. "And I'm going to send them to your wife, so that your eyes see her face one last time before I cut out your heart with a blunt, rusty bread knife."

" _That's not very realistic,"_ said Wells, over the radio. _"To get to the heart, you gotta go through the ribs. How's a rusty bread knife gonna do that?"_

" _Plus,"_ Gusty chimed in, _"when eyes are severed from the optic nerve, they don't keep seeing things."_

"Ignore them," Bucky told the young private sitting opposite him in the foxhole. On the bare earth between them was one of Stark's short-range radios; the other was in the foxhole currently inhabited by Wells and Gusty. Bucky had 'borrowed' the radios earlier that evening, whilst Stark was distracted with routine maintenance on his SSR-01, to try and alleviate some of the boredom of sentry duty. If only he'd had these as a kid! He and Steve would've had so much fun with them. "What happens next, Tipper?"

"I dunno. I haven't got that far yet. But it's gonna be really horrific and bloody."

" _Tipper, you can't start to tell us a horror story and then leave us hanging,"_ Wells' disembodied voice complained. _"It's unfair."_

"I'll finish the story next time, Sarge. You can't rush the creative process."

"Well, it's a good start, " said Bucky. "Right, guys?"

" _Right,"_ Gusty agreed. _"You send your script off to the U.S. Army Editions publishers, and your story could be in our pockets as early as next year."_

" _And it's exactly the sort of story guys serving in a war wanna hear."_ Wells voice was drier than an Arizona summer. _"A psychotic madman stalking people, systematically torturing them, and chopping them up into little pieces."_

"Maybe, at the end of the story, the guy wakes up and it's all been a dream," mused Tipper, oblivious to Wells' criticism. "Ooh, or he thinks it's a dream, but it's actually real."

"Alright Wells, your turn," said Bucky.

" _Ugh. This is stupid."_

" _We could always play I-spy again,"_ said Gusty.

"Rules are rules, Gusty," Bucky told the corporal over the radio. "We all gotta take our turns at coming up with some way of entertaining ourselves. You picked I-spy, Tipper told us the story he's working on, now it's Wells' turn."

" _Fine. Let's see… If you could have any sort of magic power, what would it be?"_

"Define 'magic power,'" said Bucky.

" _Anything. It's magic. That's the point."_

" _Immortality!"_ Gusty said immediately.

" _You can't be immortal, that's cheating."_

" _You said any magic power."_

" _Except immortality, you cheating bastard. That takes the fun out of it."_

"I've got one," said Tipper. "I'd be invisible. Think of how much damage I could do behind enemy lines if they couldn't see me!"

" _It's better than immortality. Good one, Tipper."_

" _Clairvoyancy,"_ Gusty shot back quickly. _"I'd have the power to see the future. Then I'd not only know the outcome of the war, I'd also make a killing at the dog tracks. And you can't claim that one's cheating."_

" _Fine, Gusty can see the future. What about you, Barnes?"_

"Hmm. What about the magical power to stop other people from dying? Is that a thing?"

" _Also cheating,"_ said Wells. _"No defying death, either for yourself or others. Though, I guess it would be okay if you made yourself bulletproof, or flame-retardant."_

" _Damn, I wish I'd gone with bulletproof,"_ Gusty lamented.

"Or underwater breathing," said Tipper. "I bet there's loads of exciting underwater stuff to see."

" _Like U-boats,"_ said Wells. _"Now, stop stalling, Barnes. Tell us what magical super power you'd like to have."_

"Okay, okay." He racked his mind for something suitably exciting. Mind-reading had a certain amount of appeal… but he figured he'd get bored of the lack of mystery after a while. Suspense and spontaneity were too much fun to ruin them with mind-reading or clairvoyancy. Being invisible might be fun, but only if he could turn it on and off at will. Finally, he found something to settle on. Something he'd read in an article Steve had illustrated for some crazy science-fiction periodical. "Psychokinesis. Moving stuff with my mind."

" _Aww, I wish I'd picked that one, too,"_ said Gusty.

"You're just greedy, Gusty. What about you, Wells?"

" _The magical power of flight,"_ Wells replied. _"I'd be up there with the birds, and nobody would ever keep me down. Your turn to entertain us, Barnes. And don't pick I-spy."_

Bucky considered his options, and tried to come up with something entertaining. He'd finally decided it was time to let Tipper do a little more work. He couldn't keep the kid on the sidelines forever, and guard duty seemed a nice, safe way to get him involved. When Bucky told him he'd be spending his night in a foxhole, Tipper had worn a face-splitting grin for the rest of the day. Anyone would think the guy had just been told he'd won a thousand dollars. But then, Tipper was crazy.

"Your favourite good memory," Bucky said. "From a time in your life when you were at your happiest."

" _That's easy,"_ said Gusty. _"When I turned nineteen, my dad bought me a car. It wasn't anything special, just an old, used, Tatra 57, the paint a little faded in places, but to me, it wasn't just a car; it was freedom. The night after I got it, I took it out for a drive and just kept going until the sun rose. I was two hundred miles away from home and running on fumes, but I felt like I'd just driven across the world."_

" _My first kiss,"_ said Wells. _"Amelia Short. We were fifteen, and she was painfully shy, but she had the nicest smile. Of course, it was kinda awkward—second kisses are always better—but at the time, I thought it was amazing."_

"For me, it was going to California with my family when I was twelve," said Tipper. "That place is incredible. Real beaches that go on for miles, guys who can surf the waves, and the food was really different to anything you find in New York. Even though I was still in the U.S., everything felt so exotic. Much more exotic than Plymouth, anyway. And a hell of a lot more exotic than France."

" _What about you, Sarge?"_ asked Gusty.

"Senior Prom," said Bucky. "Best dance I've ever been to. Graduated high school, had a pretty dame on my arm, and I even talked my best friend into going. He didn't dance because he swears he can't, even though he's never tried, but we still had a great evening."

A smile stole across his lips at the memory of that night. Toward the end of the dance, he and Steve had snuck away, to walk the corridors one last time and reminisce about the good old days. Over here, the lockers that Steve had been shoved into several times. Over there, the water fountain that the class clown had drenched Steve from. The corridor leading to the gym changing rooms, where Bucky had pulled Danny Cavanagh off Steve more than once. The English classroom, where Bucky had once tried to impress Jane Kapersky with his analysis of Robert Frost's _The Road Not Taken_. The math classroom, where he'd stood dumbfounded in front of the chalkboard, trying to figure out how _x_ and _y_ fit together with _z_. The art classroom, in which he'd sculpted a horse out of clay. It hadn't been a very good horse, but he'd given the finished project to his youngest sister, Janet, and she'd loved it like only a little girl with a clay horse could.

He and Steve had strolled through the school, excited to be moving on, sad about so many memories left behind, knowing that they would never set foot in the building again. It had been a night of bittersweet happiness, and a little regret.

"Um, Sarge, shouldn't we check for German interlopers?" Tipper asked, halting Bucky's casual stroll down the high school halls.

"Sure. Might as well."

He helped Tipper up, and together they peered over the edge of the foxhole. Everything was in darkness. If there were German interlopers out there, Bucky couldn't see them. Couldn't hear them, either. Only the chirping of nocturnal insects broke the peaceful silence of the night. He grabbed the radio and held it to mouth-height.

"Wells, Gusty, any sign of interlopers over your way?"

Fifty metres to the east, two helmeted heads appeared cautiously from the ground to peer at their surroundings. After a moment, they both turned to look over to Bucky's location.

" _Negative on the interlopers,"_ said Wells. _"Also, I feel we should use callsigns. After all, if German interlopers managed to infiltrate your foxhole, how would I know that I was talking to you, instead of them?"_

"I like to think the lack of a Brooklyn accent would be a dead give-away," Bucky pointed out. "But sure, if you want a callsign, I suggest yours be 'team bullshit.'"

" _And yours can be 'team patsy.'"_

" _Um, I think I should be in charge of picking the names,"_ said Gusty. _"I think you two are biased."_

" _You don't get to name stuff, Gusty. Remember?"_

" _Oh."_

"Anyway," said Bucky, as a nefarious smile tugged at his lips, "there's a serious matter I need to discuss with you, Gusty."

Gusty's voice came across quavering. _"What's that, Sarge?"_

"Tell us about this nurse who's caught your eye."

" _Aww, Sarge, there's nothing to tell."_

"Bullshit. The fact that there's a dame means there's _something_ to tell. Now, spill it."

" _I don't want everyone knowing about it, Sarge. Not yet. Not until I've got a response to my letter, anyway."_

"Don't worry, Corporal," he replied. "Foxhole etiquette states that what happens in here, stays in here. We won't say a word. Right, guys?"

"Right!" Tipper agreed.

" _And I already know anyway, so it's not like you're telling me something new,"_ said Wells.

"You see, Gusty? Your secret is safe with us. Let's have it."

Besides, foxhole etiquette or not, teasing friends about girls was a time-honoured tradition—one that he intended to keep even when he was old and wrinkled.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: V-mail, short for Victory Mail, was a hybrid mail process used by America during the Second World War as the primary and secure method to correspond with soldiers stationed abroad. To reduce the cost of transferring an original letter through the military postal system, a V-mail letter would be censored, copied to film, and printed back to paper upon arrival at its destination. The V-mail process is based on the earlier British Airgraph process. (source: Wikipedia)_


	24. Tipping Point

We Were Soldiers

 _24\. Tipping Point_

"Carrot owes Gusty two dollars and Franklin three dollars. Franklin owes everybody one dollar, so I'll strike one of Carrot's off so that's just two Carrot owes him. Wells and Barnes owe each other two dollars, so I'll cancel those out. Tex owes Mex five dollars, and Mex owes Barnes three dollars. Hodge owes Tipper two dollars, and everybody owes me fifty cents for services rendered this month." Davies closed his notebook and pocketed it.

"What services?" Hodge scoffed.

Bucky let their banter slide past the filter in his mind which automatically flagged up anything he thought he needed to get involved in. He, along with a couple of dozen men from the 107th, were sitting outside their tent polishing their boots. The clearing was filled with a very focused _swish swish swish_ of coarse-haired brushes being passed repeatedly over stiff leather. Most men hated boot-polishing, but Bucky had always found it relaxing. The _swish swish swish_ had an almost hypnotic quality to it. It was easy to get lost in the _swishing_.

"Procurement and logistics, mostly. Largely indirect. Oiling the wheels and whatnot."

"Bullshit."

Davies shrugged. "Alright then. Private Hodge loses extra toilet paper privileges, as well as dirty laundry collections, additional sugar rations, and—"

"Additional sugar rations is a load of BS you just made up," Hodge complained. "I won't be shanghaied out of my hard-earned money."

"Cowboy up, Hodge," Bucky told him.

"Fine. Add it to your little diary," the private scowled. "Anyway, why aren't you polishing your boots like the rest of us?"

Davies stretched out on the ground and offered Hodge a smug grin. "Tipper's doing mine, in exchange for cancelling out the debt he owes me. C'mon Tipper, put your elbow into it."

"Don't worry, Davies, you'll have the shiniest boots in the camp."

"Hmm." Hodge looked down at the boot on his hand, then over at Tipper, who was polishing with gusto. "Hey, Tipper, how much to do my boots, too?"

Tipper glanced up, a calculating gleam in his eyes. "Five bucks."

"Five—! That's extortion! I bet you're doing Davies' for a fraction of the cost!"

"Yeah, but Pfc. Davies provides valuable services, and it never hurts to get on his good side."

"Tipper's a smart kid," Davies grinned. "You could learn a lot from him, Hodge."

"You little rat—!" Hodge huffed.

"Excuse me. Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky looked up at a private from the 370th loitering at the edge of the group as if afraid of stepping into the lion's den. By now, tales of the 107th's antics at Last Stop and on the _Monty_ had spread around the entire company.

"What can I do for you, Private?" he asked.

"You're to report to the command tent; Colonel's orders."

"Alright, I'm on my way." He glanced down at his half-polished boots and sighed. Hopefully he'd get the chance to finish them later.

For now, he pulled them onto his feet, laced them up, and set off towards the middle of the camp. He had no idea why he'd been summoned to the command tent this time, but when the colonels called, you didn't tarry.

Part way through the camp, Dugan joined him, keeping up easily with his long stride. "Barnes," he said.

"Dugan," Bucky returned.

"You've been summoned by TPTB, too?"

"Yeah. Any idea what this is about?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Dugan glanced at him sideways, a rather speculative expression sliding across his face. "You haven't been getting into more trouble, have you?"

"Of course not," he scoffed. "Besides, I don't get into trouble. Trouble just happens around me. Sometimes. Entirely not my fault."

"So you had nothing to do with Stark tearing the camp apart yesterday looking for 'stolen' radios, which mysteriously turned up right in the very place they'd gone missing from when Stark finally got back to his tent?"

"Personally, I doubt the radios were ever missing," Bucky lied smoothly. "I bet Stark just wasn't looking for them properly. You know how it is; sometimes you can't see the thing you're looking for, even when it's right in front of your eyes."

"Uh-huh."

He could tell Dugan wasn't convinced, but at that moment they arrived at the command tent, and put all thoughts of radios and Stark out of mind. Colonel Hawkswell had sole occupancy of the tent today, for which Bucky was glad. Hawkswell was slightly easier to read than Colonel Phillips, and he wasn't as sarcastic.

"Sergeant Dugan, Sergeant Barnes, please come in," said Hawkswell, when he saw them hovering by the open tent door flap. The colonel was standing in front of a map on the table, and when Bucky got closer, he saw it was a map of the area; a different map to the one he'd worked off when he'd found Matilda. The further east they travelled, the more hilly the terrain became. Here, it was all deep valleys and rocky slopes, loose scree and narrow streams.

"This is where we're heading next," said the colonel, jabbing his finger at a point on the map some fifteen klicks to the north. "Until now, the plan was to go through this narrow pass, between these two hills. However, we've heard reports of landslides, and it may be that the pass is now… unpassable." He glanced up sharply, ready to stamp down on any sign of humour. "Sergeant Dugan, I want you to send a recon team out to check out the situation. If we can get the company through it, it will save us a day of detouring. But just in case we can't get the heavier equipment through that pass, we're going to need an alternative route. Sergeant Barnes, I want you to send a team to scout north. From the looks of the terrain on the map, there shouldn't be any major obstructions, but I want to be doubly sure that the river's still where it's supposed to be, that it hasn't widened to the point that we'll need to build bridges to cross it, and that the terrain is solid and smooth enough for jeeps, tanks and that damn plane that Stark insists on bringing along." Hawkswell pursed his lips in firm disapproval of the plane.

"Are there any hostile emplacements along either of these routes, Colonel?" Dugan asked.

Hawkswell shook his head. "Since the dissolution of the Demarcation line, it's hard to guarantee anything, but German patrols tend not to venture too far into this area. Local resistance has a habit of making sure any Nazis who follow them into the hills disappear for good. You shouldn't run into anything but trees. Questions?"

"No sir," said Bucky.

Out of the command tent, Dugan turned to him with a grin. "Betcha tomorrow's sentry duty that the pass is passable, and that your boys will be wasting their time scouting out that northern route."

Bucky shook his head. Most soldiers had an uncanny ability to turn everything into a wager, and they would offer bets on the most trivial of things. Keeping track of all the wagers going on took someone with Davies' level of expertise.

"I don't wanna take that bet. I suspect you're right, and I already do my fair share of guard duty."

"Pah! You're a real bore, Barnes."

"But at least I'm a bore who'll be sleeping in his own bed tomorrow. Come back to me when you've got something worth putting a wager on."

They parted ways, and Bucky carried on to the 107th's tent alone. So focused was his mind on the mission, on how quickly he could get out to the area indicated by Hawkswell, that at first he didn't register the calls and jeers that were picked up by his ears. When he finally _did_ register them, he picked up his pace. The 107th sounding rambunctious could not be a good thing.

In the clearing where the men were polishing their boots, he saw Hodge and Davies scuffling on the ground, whilst around them everybody wagered and cheered on one or the other. As Bucky watched, Hodge grappled Davies onto his back, but Davies jabbed his foot into Hodge's knee and broke free.

"What's going on?" he asked, crouching down beside Wells.

"I picked up a nail," Wells replied, holding up his boot for Bucky to see. Sure enough, lodged in the sole was a small nail head. Wells grabbed a pair of pliers, and tried to pull it out. "How the hell do you even pick up a nail, out in the boondocks?"

"I mean, what's going on with Davies and Hodge?"

"Oh, that. Wrestling match. The first to get the other into a headlock, wins. Hodge's idea. He wants Davies to cancel all his debts if he's victorious."

He glanced back to the roughhousing pair. Neither of them was bleeding, so he decided to leave them to it.

"Gusty!" he called over the noise of the small crowd. "Get your gear together. We've got a recon mission. You too, Wells."

"Ooh, Sarge, pick me!" said Tipper.

"Not this time, Tipper."

"Aww, but Sarge, you say that every time!" Tipper did his best attempt at puppy-dog eyes. "Please, Sarge, I'm ready for recon. Just gimme a chance."

"Sorry Tipper, you've got boots to polish. But you can do another stint in a foxhole, next time the 107th have guard duty."

"Hey Sarge," said Gusty, as he pulled his newly polished boots onto his feet, "you want me to lead a team this time? It's just recon, right? So long as we don't come across any more screaming babies, it should be a piece of cake."

Bucky looked down at his half-polished boots. Letting Gusty lead the mission would give him chance to finish his boots, and also make a start on a couple of overdue letters home. But… Colonel Hawkswell had said nothing was guaranteed. If there was even a remote chance of things going sideways, Bucky needed to be there. To fix whatever problem might arise. He wouldn't be able to relax, knowing he'd sent men into the unknown.

"Thanks, Gusty, but I could use the walk. Need to stretch my legs."

"Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Wells," said Weiss. He was loitering nearby, propping up a water tank, arms folded across his chest as he watched the wrestling match. "Can I bend your ears for a moment, over here?"

"Sure. Biggs, if Davies and Hodge start bleeding, break them up."

Weiss led the two of them further away from the clearing, and the sound of cheering voices grew quieter. Since arriving in France, Weiss had imparted to them a few pearls of sergeantly wisdom—introducing them to the concept of ' _no tags, no death_ ,' and offering advice about how to get even the laziest of enlisted men eager for combat—but had largely kept to himself, allowing the men who'd been with him for eight months in England a fairly loose rein, and maintaining a cool distance from all but a few in the regiment.

"Either of you go shopping with Mommy, as a kid?" Weiss asked, thoroughly confusing Bucky. "Carry her basket for her and whatnot?"

"Uh… yeah, I guess," Bucky said. He had some hazy memories of his mom dragging him and Mary-Ann around a grocery store.

"So you're familiar with the concept of not putting all your eggs in one basket?"

"Technically," said Wells, "if you boil the eggs first—" He shut up at a frosty glare from Weiss.

"Look, you're not kids," the grizzled man sighed, "and I don't normally like to tell other guys how to run their missions. But you can't keep going on recon together and taking Corporal Ferguson with you."

"Why not? We work pretty well together. That increases the chances of success on any given mission."

"And increases the chances of the regiment being royally screwed if things go sideways," said Weiss. "You might not be commissioned officers, but the two of you, and Gusty, are amongst the highest non-comms we've got. The regiment can't afford to lose that many sergeants and corporals at once. And besides that, your men need to gain experience, too. How many recons have the three of you been on together?"

"Three?" Wells shrugged.

"Four," Bucky corrected. Recons were only marginally more exciting than guard duty; they tended to blur into one.

"That's four recons which could have been used to give your men valuable reconnaissance experience. Your corporals need to learn to lead, as well, if they're gonna be sergeants themselves some day. I'm not saying you should send them into combat alone, but recon? They can handle it. You have to _let them_ handle it, or if there comes a time when they have to do this kinda thing for themselves, they're not going to know what to do.

"Today's little wrestling match should tell you something else; the men are bored. Let them out when you can, or they'll start going stir-crazy. Eventually, disciplining them won't be as effective. Let them start doing more, or it tells them you don't have any faith in their abilities. And stop holding Private Tipper's goddamn hand; this isn't a daycare centre. Now, I'm off for a nap. Do the mission however you want, but keep what I said in mind. You may think you're keeping the men safe by making them stay in camp and doing missions yourself, but baby birds need to learn how to fly. That's just the way of the world."

After Weiss had gone, Bucky turned to his friend. "What do you think?"

"Makes sense. Weiss has been around for practically forever, so he's gotta know what he's talking about. Right?"

Bucky nodded. "Right. I suppose Gusty's ready for it. I mean, he kept his wits about him after Danzig got shot. He can handle a simple recon."

Back in the clearing, the fight had been ended by Biggs, who was holding back Hodge. The private's nose was bleeding, and he still managed to growl, _'lemme at him!'_ at Davies, whose eye was looking purple and swollen. Maybe Weiss had a point about the men getting bored. Davies wasn't the sorta guy who normally got involved in fisticuffs; he preferred to sit on the sidelines and handle the bets.

"You two," said Wells, eyeballing Davies and Hodge, "go get checked over at the hospital tent."

Davies scowled at him. "But they'll make us give blood."

"Yes, they will," Wells smiled sweetly. "Have fun with that."

"Bastard."

"Gusty," said Bucky, as Davies and Hodge trudged off to the hospital, "you can take a team for recon. I'll grab my map and show you where the colonel wants you to scout out."

"Really, Sarge?" The look of disbelief on the corporal's face made him look about five years younger. And speaking of younger…

"Really. Biggs, Tipper, you'll be going along too."

"Wow, thanks, Sarge!" grinned Tipper. "I won't let you down, I promise. I gotta go get my stuff." He dashed off into the tent, still grinning like a school kid riding the bus for the first time.

"Watch him," Bucky told Gusty and Biggs.

"Don't worry, Sarge," said Gusty. "We'll be back before you know it."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Just when Bucky had thought southern France couldn't get any hotter, it did. As morning turned to early afternoon, the sun scorched the earth so hot that the dry ground began to crack. Everybody who wasn't on guard duty took refuge where they could; in the tents, in the lee of the tanks, and jeeps, underneath the wings of Stark's plane… it was so hot that even the insects gave up and went to ground, waiting for the air to cool.

Most of the 107th were taking siestas in the tent. Siesta was a concept Mex had introduced them to, though to Bucky, siesta seemed like a fancy way of describing Weiss' usual afternoon nap. Shunning the siesta, Bucky had taken his writing equipment to the shade of a grove of dwarf pine trees and had started writing a letter to Steve. One that would hopefully be answered, this time. Wells had joined him, bringing with him a deck of cards, which he'd laid out for a game of solitaire.

" _Dear Steve,"_ Bucky wrote. " _I hope you_ _'re well, and not getting into too much trouble. I'm not sure if you're getting my letters, or whether they're stuck in some censoring office somewhere, being butchered by some Army bureaucrat. I wrote you from Camp Shanks, but by the time you got that, I was probably halfway across the Atlantic. I wrote you again before I left England… guess it's a bit hard for the army postal service to get mail to me, out here. I'd tell you where I am, but there's no point, because they'd only censor it._

" _Things here are okay, for the most part. I thought I'd really start to miss home, when I left, but this place has become a sort of home away from home for me. Well, not the place, exactly, because we move camp every couple of days, but being with the 107th is like being with an extended… very dysfunctional… family. Part of me wishes things could have been different. That you could have made it through those basic physicals, that you could have signed up and come out here too, because I really could use your advice right about now._

" _Four days ago, we had our first casualty of war. I was on the mission, and something went wrong, and a man died. I feel bad about that. But I feel worse that—"_

"Sarge!"

His writing faltered and he looked up as Carrot rushed towards him, panting and sweating, more from the heat than from exertion. His face was pale, light blue eyes wide in alarm. He skidded to a halt when he found Bucky in the shade of the trees.

"Gusty's back!"

Bucky felt his brows lower into a frown. "It's too soon," he said to Wells. "They shouldn't have come back for three or four hours."

"They're in the hospital, Sarge!" said Carrot. "They just released Davies from giving blood, and he told me to fetch you."

A violent shiver stole over Bucky's body. He ignored it and pushed himself to his feet. _Oh god, what_ _'s happened? Don't panic,_ he told himself. _It_ _'s probably nothing. Hot day. Biggs got heat-stroke. Or Tipper tripped over a rock and twisted his ankle. Or Gusty got stung by a bee, and it disagreed with his stomach. That's all. Nothing serious. They'll be fine with a little bed rest._

With Carrot and Wells right behind him, he set out at a run for the hospital tent, uncaring of the bottle of ink he knocked over as he sprang up, ignoring the way the ink soaked into the paper, ruining his letter. He didn't wipe away the beads of sweat that trickled down his forehead, because that would have slowed him down. He just ran. Everything else could be taken care of later, once he'd made sure the team were unharmed.

He came to a dead stop outside the hospital tent, his heart pounding erratically, flooding his body with adrenaline, just like it had before the mission on which Danzig had died. Pushing that thought away, he took a brief second to compose himself, then strode into the tent, his head darting around for the team members.

Biggs was the first man he saw. The private wasn't suffering from heat-stroke; he was sitting upright on one of the medical beds, having something sharp and jagged pulled out of his leg. Still conscious, he gasped in pain as a doctor carefully extracted what looked like a piece of shrapnel. Blood was everywhere, soaking into his trousers, dripping onto the floor. One of the nurses put pressure on the wound, stemming the flow of blood, and another gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"It looks worse than it is," she said calmly. "We'll have you stitched up in no time. You're quite lucky; the metal stopped the blood from flowing, until we pulled it out. We won't even need to put any blood back in you."

"Mm'lucky," Biggs mumbled. His face was even paler and sweatier than Carrot's, and he looked exactly how Bucky had felt that day the nurses in the Plymouth camp had taken the blood out of him too fast.

He glanced around for the others. Only one other bed was occupied; Gusty was sitting on the edge of it, two blankets wrapped around his shoulders. His face was spattered with blood; specks of it had been smeared across his spectacles. Bucky couldn't see any injuries on the corporal, but he wore that same blood-chilling thousand yard stare that Hawkins had worn the day he found out Drew had died, and his hand was clasped so hard around something that his knuckles were white.

"Gusty, what happened?" Bucky asked.

The corporal's lips moved, but no sound came out.

"I didn't hear you, Gusty. What happened?"

Gusty mumbled something. His unfocused eyes seemed completely empty.

"Did either of you catch that?" he asked Wells and Carrot, who were standing to either side of him.

Wells shook his head, but Carrot replied, "It sounded like, _'It's my fault,'_ Sarge."

"What's your fault, Gusty?"

One of the nurses appeared, a deep scowl fixed on her face.

"This man is in shock, Sergeant. He needs time, and he needs to be left alone."

"Please, nurse," Bucky begged, "I had a third man out there, and I don't see him in here. I need to know what happened to him." _Please let him be fine. Please let Tipper be back in the regiment_ _'s tent. Please let him be okay._

"You can have five minutes," the scowling woman warned. "I'm going to prepare a hot cup of milk with a mild sedative for Corporal Ferguson, so you have until I get back."

"Thank you. Really. Thank you." He watched the nurse depart, then crouched down in front of Gusty, to try and make the guy meet his eyes. Seeing anything past the blood-smeared glasses was impossible, so he gently pulled them off the Corporal's face, and handed them to Carrot. "Put those aside for him. Gusty, what happened out there?"

Gusty's eyes began to water, but his gaze remained unfocused.

"It's my fault."

"What's your fault?"

"Mine."

"I know, you think it's your fault, but—"

"No." Tears started to spill down Gusty's pale, blood-spattered cheeks. He opened his hand, revealing two twisted, charred pieces of metal on a soot-blackened chain. Only a few letters had been untouched by the damage, but Bucky didn't have to see them all to know which name had been stamped there. " _Mine._ "

Finally, he understood. A cold, hard lump of something settled in his stomach, sitting heavy on his gut, making him feel nauseous. Danzig getting shot by an MG was horrific enough… how much worse would it be to see a guy torn apart by a mine?

"It's my fault," Gusty whispered.

"No, Gusty, it's not your fault," Bucky said, reaching out to put a steadying hand on the man's shoulder. His heart twisted painfully in his chest at the thought of Gusty blaming himself over this. And at the same time, an anger wormed its way through his mind; anger, because he knew whose fault it _really_ was.

He turned and strode from the tent, letting the anger rise up and take control. "Stay with him," he called out to the others. Carrot did, but Wells must have seen the anger in his eyes, because he chased him out of the tent and caught up with him as he marched across the camp towards the 107th's tent.

"Slow down," Wells said. Bucky didn't, so Wells stepped in front of him, walking backwards to try and slow his pace. "Whatever you're thinking of doing, don't." Bucky stepped around him. "Oh jeez… Barnes, you're not thinking straight. You're angry. You're thinking of doing something stupid. Are you even listening to me?"

Bucky continued his march, ignoring his friend, but he _was_ listening. For the first time, he was listening to the anger within. The anger that had been slumbering inside him for as long as he could remember. The anger that was so slow to rouse that it was hardly ever let out. His dad said fighting angry was fighting stupid, so he'd learnt to push it away and bury it. Now, he couldn't keep it buried anymore. He'd gone against his own instincts, taken somebody else's advice, and now Tipper was dead. It wasn't Gusty's fault; it was _his_ fault. And for making Gusty, and Bucky, feel this horrible, terrible guilt, someone was gonna pay.

"Barnes, c'mon pal, don't make me have to stop you from doing something stupid. Barnes, I'll tackle you if I have to. Shit. Fine, okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. I'm going to give you until the count of three to—oh, damn."

He was too late. Bucky stepped into the humid shade of the 107th's tent, his eyes adjusting quickly as he scanned the faces around him. Davies was there; he must've come back and told everyone that the mission had gone sideways, because nobody was having a siesta now. Everybody was awake, looking sick, and horrified, and backing away from the look in Bucky's eyes as he fixed his gaze onto a head of salt-and-pepper grey hair and strode forward.

Lashing out with his fist, he caught Sergeant Weiss on the cheek, a blow which sent the older man staggering, splitting his skin and drawing blood from the impact site.

"It's your fault!" he spat. Tipper was dead, and it was Weiss' fault. But really it was Bucky's fault, for listening to Weiss. And now Gusty would be tearing himself up inside, thinking it was his fault for wanting to lead, and not only was it Bucky's fault that Tipper was dead, it was also his fault that Gusty was blaming himself. But Weiss was really to blame for all of this. "Tipper tripped a mine, and now he's dead. That's on you."

Anger forced him to swing again, but this time, Weiss was prepared. Men jumped back out of the way as Weiss deflected the punch, grabbed Bucky's wrist, swept one leg away, and pivoted so that Bucky went crashing painfully to the tent floor. Before he could manage to push himself up, Weiss wrangled his arm into a lock, and planted one booted foot on his shoulder, so that he couldn't move.

Tears of frustration burned in his eyes as he cursed and struggled against the grip. Ground fighting had never been his thing. He could box with the best of them, but boxers didn't kick, or throw, or learn how to break holds. All he managed to do, as he struggled against the panting man who held him in place, was give his cheek friction burn on the rough groundsheet. All the unspent anger came out in a series of raw, guttural cries and curses, until at last his arm hurt so much that it doused some of the anger, and he stopped struggling.

"Out!" Weiss growled, and everybody in the tent made a dash for the door flap. "Not you, Wells. You're going to stay and hear this too, because I'm not going to repeat myself when somebody _you_ send out gets killed."

"This is your fault!" Bucky hissed from the floor. "You sonofabitch, you said—argh!" he cried out in pain as Weiss twisted his arm a little further.

"Listen close, 'cos I'm only gonna say this once," Weiss said, twisting Bucky's arm again to be sure he had his attention. "This is war. People are going to die. A lot of people are going to die. Before this is over, maybe everybody you know will be dead. But if you go to pieces every time someone dies, then you're no use to anybody.

"Mines are not German patrols. You can't hide from them. You can't evade them. You can't ambush and get the drop on them. There is no skill in stealthcraft or marksmanship which will save a man from a mine. They're just there, and when you step on them, no matter how good a soldier you are, regardless of whether you're a private or a general, you're dead. Mines do not discriminate, and they don't accept surrender.

"And yeah, you sent a team out, and a kid got blown up. It's a crying shame. But he wasn't the first to die, and you can bet your bottom dollar that he won't be the last, not by a long shot. Do you think the outcome would have been any different if you'd gone out there? You would have taken the same route. What if it was you, instead of Tipper, who stood on that mine? What if it was Sergeant Wells here, or Corporal Ferguson? There was a mine, it was inevitable that somebody would die. You're lucky you only lost one guy; a single mine can wipe out a whole team, if they're clustered together enough.

"You're upset. I get it. And because you're upset, I'm going to forgive you for that punch. But if you ever try something like that again, I'm going to break that arm so bad that you'll never be able to throw a punch with it for the rest of your life. Now, here's something they never taught you before sticking a few chevrons on your sleeve: Good men feel the pain of every soldier lost. Good sergeants put that pain aside and stay strong for the team. You're allowed to grieve for the dead, but not at the expense of the living. The rest of the team need to know that their safety and wellbeing is your main priority. If that means, at times, you have to be callous, then that's the price you pay for being a sergeant. And if you can't be a good man and a good sergeant at the same time, if you can't reconcile that, then choose to be a good sergeant, because that's what the men need most of all."

The angry tears still burned, but it was a different sort of anger now. An angry hatred of Weiss, an anger that the guy could be so calm, so unaffected by the death of someone as young and innocent as Tipper. Weiss showed no more concern over Tipper's death, than he would over the swatting of a fly. It wasn't fair. Tipper's life had barely just begun, and now it was over. He'd never get to finish that horror novel. Never visit California again. Never go home to the family that loved him. Never lie on his back in the camp bunk, his coin flashing between his fingers. Never beg to be allowed to do something as boring as sit in a foxhole overnight.

"I'm going to release your arm," said Weiss, as Bucky tried to hold back his tears, to stop them from overflowing. "You can stay angry if you want, but try directing your anger at the _real_ people responsible for Tipper's death: the Nazis. Because despite what you may think, I'm not to blame for Tipper. You're not to blame. Gusty's not to blame. Tipper himself is not to blame. The sooner you realise that, and the sooner you get your head in the game, the better off you'll be."

When Weiss let go of his arm, Bucky didn't move. He was too sore, and angry, and defeated, to try for another punch. It felt like Weiss had wrenched his arm out of his socket, and for a long moment he lay there, trying to get control of himself, trying to work feeling back into his aching shoulder joint. When he was sure Bucky wasn't going to try for another swing, Weiss left, but Wells remained behind, shifting back and forth on his feet, hovering between stepping closer to help Bucky up, and stepping back to give him room.

"Maybe he's right," Wells said at last. "Maybe it's best not to think about the men who die. Put them aside. Deal with it after the war."

Bucky finally managed to push himself to his feet, and scowled at his fellow sergeant. "He's not right. And maybe you can just switch off and stop caring about your friends—if you even know the meaning of the word—but I can't."

"Remember when I said I'd tell you if you're out of line?" Wells asked, a guarded expression in his blue eyes.

"I don't care. Tipper is dead—"

"And it's a miracle Gusty and Biggs _aren_ _'t_. Weiss was right about that, at least. We're lucky two men made it back, and it's not like they came back unscathed. Biggs is injured, and who knows how this will affect Gusty?" Wells sighed and finally took a step forward. "Look. I don't know how to deal with stuff like this. So, not dealing with it is my way of dealing with it. But if you wanna talk—"

"I don't," Bucky snapped.

"Good. Because I was gonna suggest you talk to the chaplain. See what comfort the Bible can offer for death by land mine."

Wells stormed out, and Bucky let him go. His friend was being arrogant and childish, but that was Wells all over, and he was too drained to deal with that now. Everything was finally starting to sink in. Hawkins' brother, Danzig, those nameless Germans, Tipper… he felt the weight of death sitting on his shoulders, and yet he knew it was just the tip of the iceberg. This was war. Good men would die so that bad men would not rule the world.

Finally, it all became too much. He sank down onto the nearest bed and held his head in his hands as tears stung his eyes once more. His thoughts went back to his letter, ink-soaked in the shade of the dwarf pine trees.

 _Steve_ _… what am I supposed to do now?_ he asked, knowing there could never be an answer.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: RIP Tipper :-( The 25th chapter will be up on 25th December, because I'm anal like that. But because I'm not 100% cruel (only about 98.5%), it won't be a chapter filled with doom and gloom and death. In fact, I hope it makes you smile. I also have a short, Avengers-style 'A Visit from Saint Nicholas' one-shot which will be up on Christmas Eve, so keep an eye out for that if you'd like some humourous rhymes*._

 _(*Disclaimer: Humour is entirely subjective)_


	25. The Letter

_Author_ _'s note #1: The theme music to this chapter is Henry Mancini's 'The Pink Panther Theme Song.'_

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _25\. The Letter_

Peggy Carter strode through the camp, her gaze fixed on the large tent that served as the company's hospital barracks. As she walked, she felt watched, but that was nothing new; as one of only a dozen or so women in the camp, it was inevitable that she would draw attention. Even more inevitable, given the fact that she was the only woman in the camp who wasn't a nurse. The only woman who wore a military uniform and carried a weapon with her at all times. On occasion, she enjoyed being the exception to the rule, the outlier in the group. Sometimes, it made her feel unique. But mostly, she wished with a dear, bitter longing, that things were different. That there were other women in the army. That the sight of a woman wearing a uniform and carrying a gun wasn't such an oddity that it drew all eyes to her.

She'd tried to tell herself that it wasn't really the fault of the men; they were what society had made them to be. She, too, had once been the epitome of what society had made women to be. Quiet. Studious. Hard-working. Chaste. Modest. Domestic. And she had believed whole-heartedly that to be a good woman, and a dutiful wife, was her true calling.

Then, her brother had been killed in action. Dear, sweet, headstrong Michael. The only one who still saw the adventurous, stubborn little girl Peggy had been as a child. Together they'd played at being pirates, explorers, conquerers and heroes. Of course, that had been before Finishing school. Before society had imprinted its rules upon her conscience. Michael had wanted more for her than to be some man's wife. He'd wanted her to keep growing, to thrive like the rhododendrons which grew wild in the grounds of the family home, eschewing the neat, uniform, tamed rows of the privet hedges. And so, buoyed by the knowledge that one man saw her as something other than a delicate flower in need of protection, she had set out to change how the rest of the world saw her, one mind at a time.

Progress was slow. Achingly slow. Painfully slow. Some men were more accepting than others. Abraham Erskine, as well as being a dear friend, was one of the few men who'd immediately accepted her on her own terms. It probably helped that the first time she'd met him, she'd saved his life. Howard Stark was slowly coming around, too. Oh, he still flirted relentlessly with her, but he no longer looked at her like she was some unwanted lab assistant fresh out of high school. When she offered suggestions, he actually listened. Usually dismissed most of them right away, but then, he usually dismissed anything that wasn't his own idea. For him, it wasn't personal; he just thought he was smarter than everybody else. Unfortunately, he was.

If the men currently assigned to the SSR's mission hadn't yet accepted her, at least the cat-calls and wolf-whistles had stopped. She'd seen to that very early on, and now the men knew better than to call out lewd suggestions as she passed. It didn't stop some of them from making lewd suggestions in private, but those were easier to deal with.

When she reached the hospital tent, she didn't go inside. Instead, she went around the back, to a second tent. This smaller, auxiliary tent was largely ignored by the men of the camp; only the chaplain was close enough to know that this was where the women slept, and being a chaplain, he averted his gaze away from the area in case he might accidentally see a woman and have to cleanse his eyes with fire.

"Sorry I'm late," Peggy said, as she stepped into the dim interior. Seven women were seated on flimsy collapsible chairs around an equally flimsy collapsible table, their only source of illumination a pair of small oil lamps. "I'd forgotten it was our knitting circle tonight, and stayed a little long with Colonel Phillips and Mr. Stark."

"I wouldn't mind staying a little long with Mr. Stark," grinned Alice Kirby. She was the youngest of the nurses; _a dirty-minded gal from Detroit_ , or so she called herself. She was one of those girls who Peggy's mother would have described as 'having no shame.' Peggy liked her very much.

A loud snort erupted from Suzie Madeley. The stern matron had seen too many Howard Starks in her life to be taken in by Howard Stark. Peggy liked her a lot, too. "Those boys still buying that 'knitting circle' baloney?" Nurse Madeley, asked, as cards flew surely from her fingers.

"Honey, Ah bet they buy whatever Peggy sells them, as long as it's sold with a wink and a smile, right, Peg?" said Marielle Green, reaching out to give Peggy's arm a friendly squeeze. It always took Peggy a moment to figure out what the southern belle was saying. When she did, she smiled back.

"Yes. I've often found men to be rather… trusting," she said, leaving out the 'gullible' she'd been considering. "To them, it makes perfect sense that off-duty women would spend their time knitting, so the poor dears never question it."

The unfortunately named Nurse Elsie Ward let out a quiet laugh. "Oh, sometimes I wish we could play with the men. Imagine how much fun it would be! A flutter of the eyelashes here, a coy smile there, and we could take them for all they have."

"You know they'd only sulk when they lose to us," said Patty Arnold. "What's the game, Suzie?"

"Five-card stud, aces are high, pot limit and the ante is ten," said Nurse Madeley.

Peggy picked up her cards and threw a ten chip into the pot.

"So, Peggy," Janie Sanders began, her green eyes peering over her hand of cards, "how was work today?"

"As fun-filled as ever," she replied, trying to keep some of the _dry_ from her tone.

"Are we gonna be moving camp soon?"

She nodded. "Now that we've had the funeral for that poor young man who was killed this morning, the colonel wants to move as soon as possible."

"Such a terrible shame about Private Tipper," said Marielle, in her southern twang. "Ah only saw him around a couple of times, but he seemed a nice boy."

The other nurses nodded, throwing what little they knew of the private into their own pot of memories. It was something Peggy just couldn't get her head around. They complained about the soldiers night and day, but as soon as one of them died, he was the nicest young man any of them had ever met—even if he'd been the world's biggest scoundrel and cad. It was as if death erased every fault and flaw.

"The second man from the 107th, too," added Elsie Ward. "And so soon after Lieutenant Danzig."

The comment garnered another round of nods. The nurses then agreed that Lieutenant Danzig had been a bit of a loner, but a very nice man. Peggy had no idea if that was true. She'd seen Danzig around a few times, and he'd studiously ignored her. In a way, she would have preferred cat-calls and wolf-whistles. It was easier to change the minds of men who saw her as goal to be attained, than those who didn't see her at all. The nurses didn't have that problem. Everybody saw nurses, because they were doing something worthwhile and respectable. Society said women made good nurses, and these women were good nurses.

Peggy Carter was not a good soldier, even though she was an excellent fighter and marksman. She would never be a good soldier, because society said she wasn't allowed to be.

"You're awfully quiet, Audrey," she said, after a round of card-taking.

Audrey Klein was a plump, rosy-cheeked girl from New Jersey. She was usually quick to laugh at the friendly female banter, but today she was as focused on her cards as Lieutenant Danzig had been on ignoring Peggy.

"Go on, Audrey," said Patty, "tell Peggy. Maybe she can help."

Curiosity was immediately piqued. The nurses were a very self-sufficient group of women. They dealt with their own problems and had the Quartermaster so in fear of them that they never had to complete a single requisition form.

"Oh, I don't know," Audrey said, as a pink blush coloured her rosy cheeks. "It's probably nothing. A mistake. A wrong name. A practical joke. You know what jokers they can be, sometimes."

"Come on Audrey, you've got my attention now. Whatever it is, spit it out, otherwise we'll never finish this round."

"Ohhh… very well." Nurse Klein reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She held it out to Peggy, who took it and unfolded it as she listened to the young woman's explanation. "I found this in the hospital, on one of the desks. It was in an envelope, and it had my name on it. It's a… um…"

"It's a love letter!" Peggy smiled at the sight of the neat writing below the ' _Dear Nurse Klein,_ '. "Do you mind? Of course, I won't read it if you don't want me to."

"You might as well," Audrey sighed. "Everyone else here has read it. The nosey old busybodies."

Peggy scanned the letter. It was sweet, not too forward—heck, it even started with the words, _'I hope you don't find this too forward,'_ —said some very nice, flattering, professional things about Nurse Klein, and was signed… _'Paul.'_

"That's it?!" Peggy demanded. " _Paul_?" It was like getting to the end of a good Sherlock Holmes novel and then never finding out who'd committed the crime. "Who the devil is Paul? Why didn't he include his surname, or heck, even his rank?"

"Maybe he's shy," said Marielle. "Ah once had a fella who was shy. He was the sweetest thang."

"We've done some digging through the medical files," said Patty, "and there are ninety-three Pauls in this camp. If we discount the ones who are married—"

"You probably shouldn't do that," Peggy advised. "You know what men are like."

There was a round of nods and hums of agreement. Yes, they did indeed know what men were like.

"This is very distinctive writing," she said, holding it up to better see it by the dim light of the oil lamp. "Very neat. Now, it stands to reason that any man writing a love letter would want to write his neatest, but there are some things that don't change much, even when a person tries to write with a neater hand. For example, the way these t's are crossed at a slight angle, and the way the g's loop underneath."

She put the paper down on top of her chips and tapped it briefly with her finger as ideas whirled through her mind like a pair of dancers. The thought of dancers brought to mind an image of Steven Rogers. It had been several days since she'd last thought of him—work and the recent tragedy had kept her too busy for frivolous thoughts—and she hoped he wasn't finding the USO stage _too_ embarrassing.

"Audrey, I'm going to find your Paul. That is, if you want me to." She focused her gaze on the rosy-cheeked face. "Do you want me to?"

Though the other nurses said nothing, she could feel them silently willing Audrey on. Egging her forward with the intensity of their wide, girlish grins.

"Well… I suppose, yes, I would like to know who sent the letter," Nurse Klein said at last. "I mean, if there's a soldier out there, watching me, it's only right I know who he is. Isn't it?"

"You are absolutely right, Audrey," said Peggy. "Just give me twenty-four hours."

She never had been able to walk away from a good mystery.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Colonel Phillips hadn't yet decided which route to take. The pass through the hills would be difficult for the vehicles—especially the towed plane—but the only alternative route posed the danger of land mines. The mines could be cleared, eventually, but they might waste more time doing that than trying to get through the pass. Mine clearance was painfully slow work. Rather like trying to change the minds of men, actually.

The lack of movement meant there was little for Peggy to do, officially speaking, and since Phillips had not summoned her, and Howard had no need of her, she considered the morning her own and was already putting it to good use. Tucked beneath her arm she carried a clipboard, on which were the full names, ranks and regiments of every 'Paul' in the camp. She'd already been through the Medical Corps, the Engineers and the Signals; now she was moving onto Infantry.

With around a hundred and sixty men, the 107th Infantry was one of the largest regiments assigned to the SSR, and normally their area of the camp was abuzz with activity. Today, the mood was somber, and it saturated the air, making Peggy feel like an unwelcome intruder. But she had a mission to undertake, and the 107th had five Pauls within its ranks.

She found a group of soldiers sitting outside the 107th's tent, polishing their boots in near silence. As usual, all eyes came up as she approached, and she recognised a few faces; could even put names to some of them.

"Agent Carter. You look stunning as always. To what do we owe the pleasure?" asked Sergeant Wells. But the usual mischievous glint in his eyes was absent. He spoke the words as if merely keeping up pretences, and he certainly didn't sound as if he considered her presence a pleasure right then. Perhaps she was starting to change his mind.

Peggy brought out her clipboard and read the names. "I'm looking for Privates Simpkin, Jackson and Colclough, Pfc. Wallis, and Corporal Ferguson."

"Gusty!" Sergeant Wells called, and a tall, lanky man appeared from the tent. He blinked a few times when he saw Peggy standing there, as if he didn't quite believe his eyes. "Here's Corporal Ferguson, Agent Carter. Wallis and Simpkin have gone to play poker somewhere with the 69th, Jackson's on guard duty, and Colclough went to the pits about ten minutes ago; he must have an upset stomach, because he's not back yet."

"Well, I'll find them, I'm sure," she said. But first… "Corporal Ferguson, I'd like you to complete this form." She took a sheet of paper out from the clipboard, and handed it over. The corporal blinked at it a few times.

"What is this, Agent Carter?" he asked.

"You've been randomly selected to take part in a survey," she explained. "Mr. Stark would like ideas for new inventions from men across the different regiments. Just write down as many ideas as you can. Things that you wish you had, or think you might find useful in the field. Anything and everything. Oh, and you should do this in private. They must be _your_ ideas, so that Mr. Stark knows where to give credit due. I'll be back to collect your sheet before dinner."

"What about the rest of us?" asked Sergeant Barnes. There were dark circles beneath his blue-grey eyes, and Peggy suspected he'd not been sleeping well. "We have ideas, too."

"Yeah," agreed Sergeant Wells. "I have lots of ideas. Seems nobody around here thinks my ideas are any good, but maybe Stark will."

"Maybe Stark wants ideas from those of us he doesn't allegedly hate," Sergeant Barnes countered. "You know, those of us who aren't already geniuses with above-average intelligence. Just plain old bread-and-butter soldiers, like me and Carrot."

"Maybe you and Carrot could share a form and help each other with the big words," Sergeant Wells shot back.

"Um…" said a flame-haired corporal whom Peggy guessed to be 'Carrot.'

She left the men to their arguing. Though she tried not to put too much stock in camp rumours, she wasn't ignorant of them entirely. And rumour had it that yesterday, Sergeant Barnes and Sergeant Weiss had gotten into a fight, and then Sergeant Barnes and Sergeant Wells had fallen out. Where Sergeant Weiss was she had no idea, but if he had any sense about him, he'd stay far away from his regiment's tent until tempers cooled down.

Men, she had found, were often far too emotional for war.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

By the light of the oil-lamps, they studied the forms that every Paul on the base had completed. Surprisingly, there were some good ideas amongst them, and Peggy diligently set those forms aside to discuss later with Howard. Seven pairs of hands made short work of ninety-three forms.

"What does this one say?" asked Janie, holding up a form that looked like it had been written by a child suffering epileptic fits.

Everybody squinted at it.

"I think that word is 'self-propelling'," said Alice. "Gosh, I wonder what—" she peered at the name on the bottom of the form, "—Corporal Ferguson wants to be self-propelled."

"Hopefully we'll never have to find out," said Peggy. "At any rate, that's definitely not the handwriting we're looking for."

In fact, the handwriting they were looking for was nowhere to be found in any of the ninety-three forms. Peggy felt like the elusive 'Paul' was slipping out of her fingers all over again. Then, Nurse Madeley came up with a suggestion.

"Maybe Paul isn't his first name. Lots of guys who don't like their given names use their middle names. Or it might even be a nickname given to him by his fellow soldiers."

"That means it could be just about anyone!" Audrey wailed.

"It means," Peggy said, more determined than ever to solve this damn mystery, "that I have to expand my search. I'm going to give them all questionnaires. Each and every one of them. Regardless of whether Paul is his first name, or his middle name, or his nickname—or heck, even his surname!—I'm going to find him for you, Audrey. That's a promise."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The ambiance in the 107th's area of the camp was no better the next day. In fact, it had worsened. The other regiments had started to give the place a wide berth; they avoided walking too near in case they got sucked down into the foul mood. Even most of the 107th seemed to be avoiding the area; two dozen soldiers was all she found outside their tent. The rest had seemingly found ways of entertaining themselves elsewhere. And until Colonel Phillips decided on a plan for moving the camp, she suspected things would not change.

"Agent Carter," said Sergeant Wells. "Two visits in two days. It feels like Christmas and New Year come at once. But if you're looking for Gusty, he's not here. Gone somewhere quiet to read a book."

"Actually, it's the rest of you I was after," she said, pulling forms from her clipboard and distributing them among the enlisted men. "Howard would now like everybody else to come up with ideas."

"Funny you should say that," said Sergeant Wells, eyeing up the forms. "We went to see _Howard_ after your last visit, to see if he'd like our ideas too—"

"Some of us have more practical ideas than others," said Sergeant Barnes. "For example, _jet boots_ are not very practical—"

"—except if you happen to be landing in a swamp—"

"—how would you even fuel them—"

"—that's what Stark's supposed to figure out—"

"—far more practical to have a hovering landing platform for multiple troops—"

"—I also had this idea for a flying tank—"

"—my idea was for adaptive camouflage clothing—"

"My god, do either of you ever stop talking?" she asked, when she was able to get a word in edgewise. Both men glared at her, while the rest of the two dozen soldiers began slinking away one by one in a slow and stealthy exodus.

"As I was saying," Sergeant Wells continued, "we went to see Stark and he claimed not to know anything about this ideas initiative of yours."

Damn. She hadn't been expecting that. But she'd been in stickier spots than this.

"Tell me something; when you went to see him, did Howard remember either of your names?"

"No," Sergeant Barnes admitted.

"Howard Stark is an eccentric, absent-minded egomaniac who doesn't like anything he hasn't thought of first. Even if he remembered asking me to poll the troops for new ideas, do you really think he'd admit to wanting help generating new inventions? And from common soldiers, no less? Of course he denied all knowledge of this exercise. When he finally comes up with some significant breakthrough, he can pretend to be surprised about its source."

"Huh. Guess he really is a genius," grumbled Sergeant Wells. "Fine. Gimme the form. I have loads of great ideas Stark can pretend to be surprised about."

"Me too," said Sergeant Barnes.

Peggy left them each with a form, and she should have left it there. Instead, she did a remarkably stupid thing: she tried to offer them some friendly advice.

"Have you considered having some time apart?" she asked.

"Apart from what?" asked Sergeant Barnes, his face a frowning mask of confusion.

"Each other. I mean, you've done nothing but argue the whole time I've been here. You've fallen out, yet neither of you has made any effort to move away or patch things up. You seem to be sitting here, arguing with each other, being childish and insulting towards one another, simply for the sole purpose of making each others' lives—and the lives of those around you—an unpleasant hell."

They both looked around, at the now-empty clearing, and at each other.

"That's a good idea, Agent Carter," said Sergeant Wells. "Maybe you should write it on a form."

"And then run it by Stark, so he can be surprised about it," added Sergeant Barnes.

"Alright, I give up," she said, raising her hands in defeat. "Make each other miserable, for all I care. I was just trying to help."

She about-faced and marched away, their conversation fading as she left.

" _Dames,"_ scoffed Sergeant Barnes.

" _Yeah,"_ said Sergeant Wells, _"what do they know?"_

" _You shouldn't put your jet boots idea down. It's still stupid."_

" _Not as stupid as…"_

"Men!" she grumbled quietly under her breath. "That's the last time I try to play the part of a bloody good Samaritan."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Seven pairs of hands did not make light work of over eight-hundred forms. Whoever 'Paul' was, Peggy was slowly coming to hate him for all the work he was putting her through to find him. Every enlisted man, and every officer below the rank of colonel, had been given one of the forms to complete. Some five-hundred forms into the pile, Audrey let out a sigh of despair.

"Maybe it was one of the nurses from the night shift playing a joke on me."

"You mustn't think that, Audrey," said Peggy, offering a squeeze of her arm. Hugging was not something Peggy did well, and she didn't think Audrey would appreciate a friendly thump on the shoulder.

"Why not? I mean, I'm no looker. I don't have Janie's pretty green eyes, or Marielle's southern charm, or Alice's dirty mind. I'm just… me."

"And you're a wonderful Audrey Klein. Isn't that right, ladies?"

"Darn right," Nurse Madeley nodded firmly. "And any fella would be lucky to have you. You have excellent child-bearing hips!"

"That's hardly—"

"Oh my golly gosh, Ah think Ah've found it!" said Marielle. Her mouth literally fell open as she looked at the form in her hands. "Oh boy. Wow, Ah dunno where he got 'Paul' from, but he's got some crazy ideas. Jet boots?"

Peggy's heart sank. What were the chances of two soldiers having ideas for jet boots?

"What's the name on the form?" asked Patty.

"Sergeant Wells." Marielle lay the form side by side with the letter, and even from across the table, Peggy could tell they were a perfect match. From the distinctively crossed t's, to the loops on the g's, the letters were the same.

Peggy's heart sank further. The most important thing now was damage control. She had to try and stop Audrey from getting her hopes up. And tomorrow, she would take Sergeant Wells apart piece by piece until he apologised to the young nurse and begged for forgiveness.

"Which one's Sergeant Wells?" asked Janie.

"One of the young sergeants from the 107th who found the baby," said Nurse Madeley.

"Ohmygosh," said Audrey, her cheeks flushing pink again. "Those sergeants who came in with the baby? I don't know which one is Sergeant Wells, but they're both dreamy. It… it's gotta be a mistake, right? A practical joke. I mean, why would a guy like that be interested in me?"

Hearing Audrey sound so hopeful, and yet so fearful, made Peggy's heart want to break. She would _definitely_ make Sergeant Wells regret this tomorrow.

"Sergeant Wells is the one with black hair and blue eyes," Elsie was explaining to Audrey. "He's really friendly, and nice—"

" _Nice?!"_ Peggy spluttered. All thoughts of _damage control_ went flying out the window. "Sergeant Wells is an arrogant, egotistical, childish, manipulative cad!"

The nurses all stared at her as if she'd gone mad.

"So… you're saying the letter's a joke?" asked Audrey, and Peggy kicked herself. The young woman's eyes were brimming with tears.

"Audrey, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I barely know the man. And yes, he may have the emotional maturity of an over-sized child, but I can't for one moment imagine that he would purposely mislead you like this. I'll tell you what, since I started this whole investigation, let me finish it for you. Tomorrow, I will very discreetly ask him about the letter. He might have a very valid reason for hiding his true identity. And whatever he says, I'll tell you, and you can decide what you want to do about it. Does that sound fair?"

"I… I guess so. Thank you, Peggy. Thank you so much."

Peggy didn't get the chance to respond, because Audrey flung herself at her, pulling her into a rib-crushing hug. All nurses had to be strong enough to hold a grown man down on a bed; even the slightly built ones were deceptively strong, and Audrey Klein had a grip like a bear.

There was no poker that night, for which she was glad. Her thoughts were already turned towards tomorrow, towards Sergeant Wells. He would pay dearly for making light of a young woman's feelings. He would know the wrath of Margaret Elizabeth Carter.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Vengeful wrath had to wait until after midday, because work came first. Colonel Phillips had finally decided on which route to take to the next site. They would go through the pass, rather than risk land mines. Camp would be broken at nightfall, and they would try to get eight hundred men, a dozen jeeps, six howitzers, four tanks and an airplane through the pass under the cover of darkness. The closer they got to Italy, the more Phillips feared the _Luftwaffe_ spotting their company.

When she was finally dismissed, she ignored Howard's invitation to join him for lunch, and made her way towards the 107th's tent. _Discretion_ and _wrath_ warred within her. On the one hand, she didn't want to embarrass Audrey any further. On the other hand, she wanted Sergeant Wells to know that if he _ever_ did _anything_ like this again, she would do everything within her power to destroy him. And as the SOE's attaché to the SSR, she had considerably more power at her disposal than one sergeant. _Discretion_ , or _wrath_?

The choice was made for her. A half-dozen members of the 107th were playing a game of poker outside the tent. They all stood as she approached. Why did men always stand when a woman entered a room or approached their table? Tipping hats was one thing, but why did they always have to get to their feet? Did they think women couldn't walk into a room to the sight of seated men? That the very _idea_ might make a woman feel faint? It was a stupid, pointless act pushed upon everyone by society, and it pushed her over the knife-edge into _wrath._

"Agent Carter—" Sergeant Wells began.

She didn't let him finish. She didn't care for whatever platitude he was spewing out today, because now she knew that every word from his mouth was a lie. Quicker than anyone could blink, she pulled back her arm and socked him heavily on the cheek. It wasn't an open-handed girly slap of the type Hodge had probably been expecting when she'd hit him. It was a full-on punch, because she wanted to hurt him, and she knew damn well how to fight. Sergeant Wells didn't fall on his ass, like Hodge had, but he _did_ go staggering backwards. The rest of the men around the table leapt back.

"What the hell?!" Sergeant Wells demanded, his eyes flashing equal parts anger and confusion. "Are you crazy? You don't just hit a guy like that!"

"You wrote this letter!" she spat, unfolding the love letter from her pocket, holding it up for him to see.

His eyes scanned it briefly. "Yeah. So? I didn't mean anything by it. You know I've only got eyes for you, Agent Carter."

"No, you don't!"

She swung again, but this time Sergeant Wells leaned back and caught her fist in his hand. She had another fist, so she dropped the letter and swung that one; again he caught it. Anger that he'd seen her second punch coming gave strength to her legs, and she kicked out at his shins. It was all he could do to dodge without falling flat on his back.

"Jesus, lady… Biggs, restrain Agent Carter!"

Before Peggy could react, she felt herself grabbed from behind. Huge arms wrapped themselves around her, holding her arms firmly against her sides. When she tried to kick backwards, she was lifted into the air, where her legs couldn't reach any shins.

"Sorry 'bout this, Agent Carter," said a voice beside her ear. "Can't let you go beating up Sergeant Wells."

An angry growl escaped her lips. "Let me go, you… you—"

"Please try not to kick Private Biggs, Agent Carter," said Sergeant Wells. "He's just had a piece of shrapnel removed from his leg. If you'll stop struggling, I'm sure he'd be happy to put you down, and then I'll explain everything."

She didn't want to acquiesce, but if it meant getting another chance to kick the guy somewhere painful, she would do it. When she stopped trying to lash out, the man holding her up slowly put her down, and released her warily, as if expecting her to go on the attack again at any moment. He wasn't half wrong.

"Explain fast," she scowled.

"Alright. See, every guy needs a Plan B, in case Plan A doesn't work out. And with you acting the frost queen, I figured, what the heck, I've nothing to lose, right?"

"Plan B?! Of all the vile, cruel, despicable… What part of your twisted mind thinks it's acceptable to toy with a young woman's feelings like this? To lead her on with words of affection, and then claim she's your 'Plan B'? And why didn't you just put your own name on the damn letter? Why pretend to be 'Paul'? Was it cowardice? Shame? What kind of sick joke are you playing here?"

Sergeant Wells' eyes darted quickly back and forth. The shiner on his cheek was already turning purple. _Good._ "Pseudonym," he said. "All the great writers have them. In fact, my great, great uncle six times removed is—"

"Sarge, it's okay, you don't have to lie for me anymore," someone piped up from the group of poker players. A tall, gangly corporal appeared from the crowd. She recognised him from the day before yesterday; Ferguson, she thought. He stepped forward and picked up the letter she'd dropped during the fight. Dusting it off, he straightened it out, folded it up, and tucked it into his pocket. "I wrote the letter, Agent Carter. Only, my handwriting is so bad that I asked Sergeant Wells to rewrite it for me. I left it on one of the desks in the hospital tent, three days ago. That was before… before…" His eyes went watery behind his glasses. Steeling himself, he lifted his gaze to Peggy's face. "Please tell Nurse Klein that I'm sorry. I shouldn't have written it. It was inappropriate, and I meant to see her myself, and explain it… but then, things changed. Please tell her I really am sorry. For all of this."

And then he walked away, into the tent, and the rest of the 107th watched him go.

"Gusty's having a bit of a rough time at the moment," Sergeant Wells explained quietly. "Three days ago he saw a kid get blown into pieces so small they couldn't bring anything back to bury."

Peggy wished for a huge, dark chasm to open up in the ground and swallow her whole. When she'd heard of the tragedy on the recon mission, she'd just assumed—an assumption bolstered by their recent behaviour—that Barnes and Wells had been the ones on the mission. That they blamed each other for the death they couldn't prevent. She hadn't imagined that Corporal Ferguson, and probably Private Biggs, if he'd just had shrapnel removed from his leg, had been the ones with Private Tipper at the time of his death. Now, everything made more sense. Why the mysterious 'Paul' hadn't come forward after delivering the letter. Why it was written in Sergeant Wells' handwriting. Why Wells had let her believe the letter came from him. And now she'd just punched a man for trying to look out for a friend.

Where were those dark chasms when you needed them?

Turning, she found Sergeant Wells focused on his wristwatch.

"I'm sorry."

"One minute and forty seconds," he said. "Not bad. I was wagering with myself that I'd be waiting at least two minutes for an apology. And don't forget Private Biggs; you kicked him in his shrapnel leg."

"I'm very sorry for kicking you, Private Biggs, and I hope I haven't caused further harm to your injured leg," she offered.

"It's just my feelings that you hurt, Agent Carter," the huge man said sadly. He wandered off into the tent, leaving Peggy feeling about a hundred times worse.

"Look, Sergeant Wells, I may have acted rashly—"

"Understatement," he interrupted.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed on. She was going to regret this. She already knew she was going to regret it.

"If there is any way I can make it up to you, to show you that I genuinely am sorry for punching you in the face, please let me know."

Sergeant Wells studied her for a moment, his blue eyes thoughtful. "Actually, there is something you could do for me."

"And what's that?" she asked. And if it sounded like something said through clenched teeth, it was because her teeth were clenched.

"If I write a letter," he grinned, "would you deliver it for me?"

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

She'd been expecting some foolish expression of interest written down to be delivered to one of the nurses, and couldn't decide whether the reality was better, or worse. Still, at least he wasn't having her _sing_ the damn thing.

Sergeant Barnes was sitting on the bank of the stream, absently throwing small pebbles into the water, watching without watching as they went _plop_ and sank. He didn't react when she approached, and barely even seemed to notice when she sat beside him.

"Is everything okay, Sergeant Barnes?" she asked.

"Everything's fine," he replied in a dull monotone quite at odds with the pleasant splashing and bubbling of the stream's song. "I was just remembering the last time I sat by the water, throwing stones in. I was fifteen, and my dog had just got run over. And now I feel bad that I'm likening this to that. This is nothing like that. You ever have a dog, Agent Carter?"

"Yes, when I was a little girl," she said. "Picasso. He was a little Lhasa Apso. Went everywhere with me, until I had to leave for boarding school."

"Ever lost any friends?"

"Yes. One I lost just before being shipped out here, in fact."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Don't be. My friend was somebody I looked up to and admired very much. He was murdered; killed before his time. He had so much left to give, and that was stolen from him. But the life he _did_ live was as fulfilling as a life could possibly be, and I know he had very few regrets. He died in the line of duty, doing something he loved, and as terrible as death is, knowing that the people we care about die doing something they feel is worthwhile… well, it makes their deaths a little more manageable. Or at least, I think it does."

Thoughts of Doctor Erskine still stung, but the stings were growing less painful with every day. Time could never completely erase the pain of a loss, but it could take the edge off.

"Does it ever get easier?" he asked, his grey eyes confused, hopeful, afraid.

"Never."

"Oh."

"You were expecting another answer?"

"I was expecting you to lie to me. So many people do. I think sometimes, I lie to myself as well. I'm worried that, one day, I might not be able to separate the truths from the lies."

"Then it's a good job you have friends to help you do that."

He scoffed. "No offence, Agent Carter, but I'd hardly say we're friends. In fact, I think you don't like me all that much."

"That's not true. I just don't have an opinion about you either way, yet. Besides, I wasn't talking about myself."

"Oh?"

Fighting a pang of irritation, she pulled a letter from her pocket. "I have a letter, here. I'm supposed to read it out to you. _Can_ _'t believe I have to read it out,_ " she grumbled. "Ahem. _Dear Sergeant Barnes. I am sorry for_ _'being a jerk', but you are confusing the hell out of me. First you tell me that you don't want sugar-coated lies, but when I tell you the truth, you get 'pissy' with me. Do you want sugar-coating when somebody dies, and honesty the rest of the time? Despite what you might think, I don't actually like lies, and I don't enjoy telling them. So, make up your damn mind, because honest to god, trying to figure you out is going to fry my noodle._

" _I'm sorry, too, for all that stuff I said when we were inventing things. Your hovering platform was a really good idea, and I think your adaptive camouflage concept has merit—but good luck getting Stark to see that. I didn't mean all those things that I said, except perhaps you and Carrot helping each other with big words on the form. But mostly I meant you should be the one helping Carrot, because you know how much he struggles with words longer than three syllables. So, again, I'm sorry. I know we said a lot of mean things to each other… for me, arguing seemed the easiest thing to do. A way of distracting myself from thinking about everything else. I guess I just took it too far. Maybe we both did._

" _Hope you can accept my apology, because the… tea party…? is no fun without you._

" _Wells._

" _P.S. Agent Carter is reading this of her own free will. How neat is_ that _?!_ _"_

"And by 'free will,' he means he blackmailed you?" Sergeant Barnes asked. Apparently, he knew his friend too well.

"No," she sighed wearily. "I offered."

"Why?"

 _Because I couldn_ _'t get the ground to open up and swallow me after the world's biggest faux pas,_ she thought. But she said, "It's an entertaining story that I'm sure Sergeant Wells is just itching to tell you himself. But what did he mean by 'tea party'? I didn't think you Americans drank anything but coffee."

Sergeant Barnes snorted, turning his gaze back to the water. "We're all mad here."

Peggy stood and dusted the dried grass seeds off her skirt. "You certainly are." And she'd had quite enough of this madness to last a lifetime. Leaving Sergeant Barnes to his melancholy, she set off back to the command tent.

It really was a shame that there were no more women in the army. A company full of armed Nurse Madeleys and Nurse Wards would do far better at war than the overly sentimental men who insisted on acting like they were boys in the school yard. If they couldn't even hack the action they were seeing in France, how were they ever going to cope once the _real_ mission started?

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note #2: Merry Christmas to all of my readers! I'd like to say an especially big_ _ **THANK YOU**_ _to my amazing regular reviewers. I truly appreciate how much time and effort you put into your reviews, and the level of feedback you give. It_ _'s always a joy to hear your thoughts on the story, and hope it will continue to entertain you. Enjoy what's left of your Christmas, and if you don't celebrate this particular holiday, then Happy Unremarkable 25th December to you! I'll post the next chapter on New Years Day, so that anybody who is feeling a little delicate after NYE celebrations will have the perfect excuse to lounge around in bed reading fanfiction._


	26. Redress

We Were Soldiers

 _26\. Redress_

The rhythmic patter of rain woke Bucky in the early morning, just as the sun was beginning to rise. He lay on his back on his uncomfortable camp bunk, listening to the sound, watching the light start to creep through the cracks in the canvas. For the third night in a row, he'd slept restlessly, haunted by dreams of Tipper falling into an open grave, calling out for help. Bucky had asked Colonel Hawkswell if he could send back a personal missive with the official condolence letter, and Hawkswell had agreed… but finding something to say about Tipper wasn't as easy it had been for Danzig. He'd been closer to Tipper. Felt protective of him. So far, he hadn't been able to find a sensitive way to express his deep sympathy for the Tipper family's son stepping on a mine.

Light spilled into the regiment's tent as the flap was pushed open, and the head of a soldier was outlined there. "Sergeant Barnes? Sergeant Wells? Colonel wants to see you in the command tent, ASAP."

"Okay," Bucky replied, and the head disappeared. "Hey, Wells—"

"I heard," came the voice from the bed next to his.

Bucky slid out from beneath his blanket and dressed in his off-duty uniform. Around him, a few other soldiers stirred, but it would be another hour or so before hunger drove them from their beds. Whichever colonel had sent a runner was clearly having an early start today.

Outside the tent, they set off towards the command centre, which today was situated slightly uphill of the 107th's barracks. The company had travelled for five hours in total darkness, making their way through a treacherously narrow and rocky pass, and had set up camp on the first piece of ground that was soft enough to drive pegs into.

"Did you get my letter okay?" Wells asked, as they trudged uphill.

"Yeah." Since Agent Carter had read it to him, he'd managed to avoid talking to Wells. Not because he was still angry—hell, he could barely even remember what he'd been so angry about—but because he felt a burning shame over the way he had acted and the things he had said to his friend. He really had acted like a child throwing a tantrum. He knew he was at fault, and didn't know how to make it right. Didn't deserve forgiveness, after the things he'd said.

"How's your face?" he asked. He'd gotten the full story from Biggs, after hearing the letter read aloud.

"Still smarts," Wells said, rubbing gingerly at the bruise on his cheek. "Agent Carter does definitely not punch like a dame. In fact, she punches like a guy. Did she manage to put enough tone of genuine regret into my apology, or did she deliver it in a smug, Britishly superior tone? Because that wasn't my intention."

"She did pretty well," he replied.

They reached the command tent before Wells could ask another question, and entered with swift salutes. It was Colonel Phillips who was waiting for them, and he wasted no time on pleasantries.

"Sergeants, I have a new mission for you. Do you remember that communications bunker you captured last week?"

"Yessir," they both agreed.

"Good. Because now I'd like you to do it again." He gestured them over to a map, on which a small red 'X' had been marked. "This target has been designated… hell, it doesn't matter what it's been designated. Our intel suggests it's pretty much the same setup as the last one; a handful of soldiers and an MG. Go there, kill Nazis, take the bunker intact. Let me know when it's done."

Bucky glanced at Wells, and saw an echo of the confusion swirling around in his own gut.

"Sir? Who's our CO on the mission?"

"You need a commanding officer to tell you how to do a job you've already done once before?"

"No sir," he replied, because any other response would have been stupid and suicidal.

"Good. Before you go, let me make one thing very clear." Phillips stepped up in front of them, his weathered face creasing into a deep frown. "I don't want prisoners. We are here on a covert mission, and we do not have the luxury of cells, or extra rations for feeding men who are nothing but dead weight."

"Sir," Wells spoke up, just before Bucky could, "Army regs state that enemy soldiers who surrender should be taken as prisoners of war and treated with—"

"I know what regs state, Sergeant. Regulations say you've got to take prisoner any hostile soldier who surrenders his arms. But regs don't state you have to give him a chance to surrender. Hostiles who have no opportunity to surrender, can't. Don't come back here and tell me you've taken prisoners. Understood?"

"Yessir."

"I'm glad to hear it. Before you head out, go see Stark. He's got some new toys for you to play with."

They saluted and about-faced, hurrying from the command tent before Phillips could tell them to break any more regulations. If there had been any doubt in Bucky's mind about what had _really_ happened to the last prisoner they'd taken, that doubt now fled. Part of him saw the wisdom in not taking prisoners… but shooting men who'd thrown down their arms broke regs. Laws. Conventions. How could Bucky kill an unarmed man, and ever hope to go home and face his family again? His last act of perfidy was bad enough.

"I guess now we know what happened to Uberlieutenant Wossname," said Wells. He looked as queasy as Bucky felt. "Shit. You know how wrong it is to kill someone who's surrendered, right?"

"Yeah." Bucky set off downhill, towards Stark's tent. He ignored the rain which pattered against his clothes as he carefully picked his way over the rocky ground. Though, maybe 'careful' was the wrong way to do it. Maybe he oughta walk without care for where he put his feet. Maybe he would fall and sprain his ankle, and then he wouldn't have to go on another mission and kill people.

"Okay. New question. Are you still pissed at me? Because you've been kinda monosyllabic up to now. If you're pissed at me, and don't want to do this mission with me, then I can ask Weiss to go instead, if you want. Phillips doesn't care who goes, as long as it gets done."

"I'm not pissed at you."

"Oh. Good. So… you forgive me for being a jerk?"

Bucky stopped and turned to face his friend. Four weeks ago, getting an apology out of Wells would have been harder than getting blood out of a stone. Now, the guy was apologising for things he had no reason to apologise for. Four weeks ago, Bucky would have been glad of the change. Now, he felt bad that he'd made a friend feel guilty about something that wasn't his fault.

"I can't forgive you," he said, and pressed on before Wells could object, "because there is nothing to forgive. You did exactly what I asked: you told me the truth with no sugar coating, but I didn't want to hear it. I guess maybe we see different truths, and I didn't wanna see it from your angle. I'm the one who owes _you_ an apology. Not for all those things I said when we were filling out the forms, but for accusing you of not knowing what friendship means. I heard what you did for Gusty, taking the fall for him with Agent Carter."

"Just part of the service," Wells said with a casual shrug. "He paid me a lotta smokes to write that letter."

Bucky let the bullshit pass unchallenged. He didn't think his friend was ready to admit that he cared more than he let on, and that underneath all the blackmail and bullshit, he was actually a nice guy. For whatever reason, Wells had got it into his head that he needed to be aloof and kind of a jerk, and Bucky didn't think he had any right to try and burst that particular bubble.

"It's the only ship that can't be torpedoed by U-boats, you know," Wells continued, as they resumed their walk in the rain to Stark's tent.

"What is?"

"Friendship."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Jeez, that's just dire." Steve would love the cheesy humour in that.

"It was hilarious and you know it," Wells grinned. And just like that, it was as if the past three days of childish arguments and insults had never happened.

They found Stark hard at work in his tent. Or maybe _faking_ being hard at work. In Bucky's last job, there'd been a guy who carried large piles of paper between the different offices in the building. For the first few weeks Bucky had worked there, he'd felt sorry for the guy with the piles of paper. It looked like exhausting and thankless work. It was only when he actually struck up a conversation with the guy that he discovered he wasn't actually working at all. Apparently, if you carried paper around and looked harassed, everybody thought you were doing something important and didn't give you any _real_ work to do. The piles of paper, underneath the top two or three sheets, had been completely blank.

Maybe crazy inventors had their own version of that. Maybe if they tinkered with mechanical things for long enough, everybody assumed they were on the verge of some new scientific breakthrough and left them alone. Maybe all they were really doing was fine-tuning their radios.

"Jeez, don't you ever sleep?" asked Wells, when they found Stark tinkering over something on his workbench. The millionaire's hair was messy, as if he hadn't combed it in two or three days, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.

"I don't sleep, I coffee. It's the price of genius." His eyes darted up, and the rest of him followed, straightening from the hunched-over tinkering position. "Ah, Sergeants… Sergeants…" Bucky waited for him to finish. Surely the guy couldn't be _that_ bad with names, could he? After all, he probably had the Periodic Table memorised; how could two names be any more difficult than that? "…Sergeants! Glad you made it. Phillips said you'd be stopping by. Asked me to prepare a few bits and pieces for you. But these items are extremely volatile. I don't want them abused, or thrown around, or thrown at each other. So, with that in mind; have the two of you kissed and made up yet?"

They treated him to a shared stony glare, which Stark ignored.

"Can't believe you bought into Peggy's hackneyed claim I need help inventing things," Stark chuckled. "Talk about gullible. Really though, if I ever _do_ start asking you guys for ideas, please shoot me with one of my own inventions."

"Trust me, I'm already seriously considering it," Bucky told him.

"Excellent! So. Let's see what I've got in my toolbox for you today." Stark reached down under his workbench, and came up with… a long piece of two-by-four. Wrapped around the length of the wood were a bunch of colourful wires, and they were attached to a contraption at the top. When Stark turned the thing over on the workbench, Bucky found himself looking at the facial likeness of a middle-aged man with a grey, receding hairline. "I call this the Auto-Gun Foil."

"How does it work?"

"I'm glad you asked, Sergeant… Sergeant," said Stark. "This incredibly complex piece of technology is based upon a cell-sized chemical reactor which sends thermal energy along these insulated copper wires, and which builds up a slow charge in the coiled thermal element in the top. The temperature is regulated to approximate the body heat of a human being, and thus fool any heat detectors into believing they have picked up an enemy soldier. If those detectors are wired to MGs, like the last one was, it will reveal the gun's position without any loss of life, and might draw enemy forces towards it."

"So you're basically saying," Wells replied, "that we wave the long, warm, battery-powered stick around to draw gunfire and use as a decoy?"

"If you want to put it in layman's terms, yes."

"If your best idea for counteracting machine guns which can automatically aim at targets is to _wave around a big stick_ , maybe you really should be considering asking the troops for assistance."

"Who's this guy?" Bucky asked, pointing to the likeness that had been drawn onto 'head' of the stick.

"Hugh Jones. A pal of mine, but no less a greedy cretin because of it," Stark explained. "I put that on there to help you guys figure out which end of the stick to hold, and which end to wave. Plus, it might come in useful if you ever have to pass unnoticed through the festivities of _D_ _ía de Muertos_." Stark held the stick up to his face, peering through the eyes, which had been cut out to make a mask. "Tell me the sunken eyes and deathly pallor doesn't remind you of a corpse." He waited for a response, and received only silence. "Right. Shouldn't expect you two chuckleheads to speak Spanish. Moving on."

This time, Stark brought out a large, dome-shaped metallic object which had only two buttons on the front. Bucky picked it up and turned it around a few times, but couldn't see anything that might indicate what the damn thing was designed for. Couldn't even see any entry points into the casing.

"New helmet design?" he guessed.

"No. But I've been working on one of those, too. This handy little contraption should help you get into any German communication bunkers. You got lucky last time, and the Nazis were careless; they left their door unlocked while they came out to shoot at you. It would be a stroke of good fortune if the next bunch made the same mistake. Just in case they don't, you can use this."

"I'm almost afraid to ask how it works," said Wells.

"Magnets may be involved. Let's just leave it at that. You hold it against the door, press the button, and voilá. Couldn't be easier."

"Why the two buttons?" Bucky asked.

"The green one unlocks doors, the red one locks them. Neither of you are red-green colourblind, are you?" They both shook their heads. "Good! Then you shouldn't have any problems with this. I've been calling it the Patented Stark Industries Mobile Magnetic Door Locker And Unlocker."

"Can't we just call it a Universal Key?"

"Ugh, fine, if it helps your brain to retain information, go ahead and give it a short name."

"Wait a minute," said Wells. A glimmer of something sprang into his blue eyes for the first time in days. It might have been hope. "Didn't you threaten me with some drug to stop me talking?"

"No, you must be mistaken. Threatening isn't really my style. _Inferring_ , on the other hand… But you don't need to worry, I fixed that days ago. It works as it should, now. At least, that's the theory. I need to test it in a real interrogation situation."

"Do you think you could unfix it? And weaponise it?"

"I can weaponise anything," Stark said, radiating smug. "However, unfixing that particular serum and weaponising it will take days, at least. The chemical mixture is very unstable, and I'd have to design a whole new delivery system. Why? What do you want it for?"

"To make our jobs a little easier," said Bucky, following his friend's train of thought. A pity Stark couldn't make it a viable option within the next hour; he would have dearly loved to have a way of stopping German soldiers from surrendering.

"Well, I'll see what I can do for next time."

"Just how many of these damn comms bunkers are there?" Wells asked.

"I meant hypothetical next time," Stark evaded. "Anyway, don't you two have somewhere to be?"

Taking that as a dismissal, they grabbed the stick and the Universal Key, along with the jammers and the short-range radios, and stepped out of Stark's tent to his call of: _"Don't break my stuff!"_

"So," said Wells, resting the stick over his shoulder like a rifle, "who do you want to take on the mission?"

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The rain persisted.

It grew heavier, drumming steadily on Bucky's steel helmet like a percussionist in a marching band. The drumbeat set a steady tempo to which he marched and the others followed. Fifteen men in total, as grim-faced and damp as Bucky. They'd donned their khaki-green waterproof ponchos early in the trek to their target, but the waterproofs didn't keep out all of the water, and Bucky had been feeling it trickling down his neck for the past fifteen minutes. If the circumstances had been different, he might have enjoyed the soaking. Though the large company tried to camp beside a flowing source of water at every new stop, it wasn't always within easy walking distance, and there were times when he'd gone longer than he would have liked without bathing. The water they carried with them was designated essential-use only, to be used first for drinking, cooking and medical reasons, not for frivolous washing.

"We must be getting close, now," said Wells, above the drumming.

Bucky nodded, and found a slightly sheltered spot beneath the trees. He called a halt and ran his eyes over the men. Though they looked like drowned rats, they didn't seem tired by the seven klick march, nor daunted by the prospect of another combat op. Other than Biggs, who'd had to stay behind because of his recently injured leg, they were much the same team as the last time. Bucky had considered leaving Hawkins behind, too, but the young private had asked to be included, promising he would do better this time. It seemed a good day for second chances, so Bucky had acquiesced.

"Carrot, go scout ahead, see how far that bunker is and get the lie of the land. Tex, Franklin, go with him. And be careful; don't get too close, or those detector things might pick you up."

The three men disappeared into the brush, and the rest of the team squatted down to take a short break. A few checked and re-checked their bandoliers beneath their ponchos, to make sure they hadn't gotten damp inside, while others broke out their canteens and packets of hard biscuits.

"Last time we did this," Wells said quietly, "those soldiers appeared pretty quick after Danzig got shot."

"You think we tripped some kind of alarm?"

"Or the sound of gunfire alerted them to intruders."

"So, even if we use Stark's decoy stick to trigger the gun, we're still gonna have a bunch of soldiers come rushing out into their trench," said Bucky.

"I have a crazy idea," said Wells.

"Not another!" he groaned in semi-jest.

"I think Danzig was on the right track. He wanted to take the machine gun position, but those damn detectors meant nobody could get close without being targeted. What if we could take out the detectors, climb up to the gun turret, put a couple of guys on the roof, then manually fire the machine gun so they think they're under attack? When they come running out of their rabbit holes, we're waiting for them."

"It's a terrible plan, Wells. What if the detectors aren't just tied to a gun, but to an internal alarm, and taking them out triggers the alarm and sends everyone running? Or what if the gun is manned this time, and whoever tries to get up there is seen? Or what if—"

"Why do you always have to expect the worst? You're raining on this parade even harder than the weather."

"I'm trying to present realistic problems we might encounter so that we can minimise the risk by having contingency plans. Didn't you cover this during your advanced training, before they gave you your chevrons?" Bucky asked.

"Yeah, but I mostly slept through that class. I scored pretty high on creative problem solving, though. You know, coming up with solutions on the fly, trial and error, and that sort of thing."

"I scored better on critical thinking and planning."

"Personally, I think there's a point where critical thinking becomes over-thinking," Wells shrugged. "But maybe that's not a bad thing. You come up with the plan, and if it goes wrong, I'll come up with a solution. If it goes right, then all the better."

The scout team came back a short time later, to report on what they'd found.

"It's similar to the last one, Sarge," said Carrot. "MG 42 on top of a bunker, only this one has a trench all the way around it. We had a good look at the gunner position and couldn't see it manned, so there must be more of those detector things. We made sure to stay a good distance out, so the detectors didn't see us."

"Any cover in the area?" Bucky asked.

"No, the forest's been cleared at a radius of about twenty feet around the building."

"And the building's the same size as the last one?"

"Yeah, Sarge. It's like they made it from the same mould."

"Hmm."

"You've got a crazy idea, don't you?" said Wells.

"Yes," Bucky agreed. "What if we didn't lure those Nazis out of their rabbit warren? What if we sent the ferrets in, instead?"

"Why do I get the feeling you just called me a ferret?"

He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Because you're a smart guy, Wells. Now, here's my plan," he said, looking around at the whole group, at their open, trusting faces. What would he be getting them into if his plan went wrong? In a way, it was even madder than Wells' plan. "Tex and a couple of others get a location on that detector that's gonna trigger the MG. We wait till late night and take it out. A small team is standing by to take the gunner position, using Stark's decoy stick in case there are other detectors in play. Once we have the gun, another team heads into the trench and uses the Universal Key to open the front door. We then quietly infiltrate the bunker, eliminate any soldiers inside, and secure the comms room."

"That's actually crazy," said Wells. "Instead of drawing soldiers into the open, you wanna fight them in confined quarters?"

"Where they're least expecting us," Bucky nodded. "Where they may be sleeping, relaxing and, hopefully, unarmed and unarmoured."

"Even a quiet infiltration is gonna draw attention as soon as the first shot is fired. Those sniper rifles of yours might have noise suppressors on, but our pistols don't."

"We have knives, and they don't make any noise at all. We'll have pistols to fall back on, but maybe we can thin the herd a little first."

"Okay. Could I speak to you in private for a moment?"

Bucky instructed the group to try and find somewhere relatively dry to settle down for the evening, then allowed Wells to lead him a short distance away. He could already see a thousand objections etched across his friend's face… far more objections than he'd presented when faced with the prospect of leaving Matilda in Aureille.

"It's a sound plan," he said, before Wells could open his mouth.

"I'm not saying it's not sound, but you want to send men to sneak into an enemy installation to catch the Germans with their pants down and assassinate them without a fight?"

"Of course not. I would never send the men to do that. It's gonna have to be you and me." He rushed on as Wells prepared to object again. "You heard what Phillips said: no prisoners. We can't ask the rest of the team to do that. It's not fair. Hell, it's not fair that _we_ have been asked to do it."

"A week ago, I shot someone dead for the first time, and now you want me to do it with a knife? To slit some guy's throat while he sleeps?"

"If it's a problem for you, I'll do it myself," Bucky told him. The thought made him feel sick to his core, but if it kept the rest of the team safe, if it meant they could go back to camp and not have to bury another member of the 107th, he would do it. A firefight might be easier to live with, but there could be no doubt that the Nazis in this bunker had to die. Maybe cutting their throats would even be the kinder option. It could take a guy minutes or hours to die from a gunshot wound; a slit throat would be swift, and probably less painful than being shot.

"If you think you're gonna take on a bunker full of Nazis on your own, with nothing but your bayonet knife, you're even more full of shit than I am," Wells scoffed. "We have a job to do, and I'll do it with a gun, a knife or my bare hands, if I have to. But why are you doing it like this? We managed just fine in the last shoot-out."

"I don't want anyone caught in the crossfire," said Bucky. "The rest of the team can hang back outside in case any Krauts try to rabbit. We can have a guy on the MG, and Tex keeping an eye on the area with his SSR-01. Cover all our bases."

"Alright," said Wells, a defeated sigh escaping his lips. "We'll try it your way. Just wish I'd thought of sharpening my knife before coming out here."

They returned to the team, finally united behind a single crazy plan.

"Four teams," said Bucky. "Tex, Carrot, Hartley, you're Alpha Team. Tex, you'll need to locate the detector attached to the MG and take it out from a distance. After that, hang back and keep watch, just on the off chance there's a patrol out here. Bravo Team will be Jones, Franklin and Hawkins. Once the detector's out of the picture, you'll take the gunner position atop the bunker. Wells and I are Charlie Team, and the rest of you are Delta Team. Both teams will enter the trench around the bunker and open the door. Charlie Team will enter and eliminate any hostiles, whilst Delta Team stands by to deal with any enemy soldiers who might try to make a run for it.

"The first thing that has to happen, is we set up Stark's radio blockers around the facility, just like last time. Once that's done, Tex will give the word when the detector's out of play, Jones will use Stark's stupid decoy stick to ensure the gun is really out of action and that there are no additional detectors, then everything else will happen simultaneously. Questions?"

There were none.

"Good. Tex, Carrot, I'll go with you both now to take a look at the bunker and see if we can spot that detector. Wells, set a guard until we're ready to move; we don't want to be caught unawares by any wandering Krauts. Everyone who isn't doing something, take it easy until we're ready to move out."

As Bucky followed Tex and Carrot in the direction of the bunker, it never occurred to him that the mission wouldn't succeed. He never once considered how much danger his own life would be in. His greatest concern was living with his actions after the event. If he felt bad about shooting a guy who had no idea he was there, how much worse would he feel when he had to take a life within arm's reach?

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: Happy Gregorian New Year, everybody, and welcome to 2017! Sorry I had to kick things off with such a grim chapter; we'll get to something lighter and fluffier very soon. But first, we have a bunker to capture. I'll post the outcome of that on Wednesday. Also, thanks to guest-reviewer "Y"—happy to hear you're enjoying the story! And guest-reviewer LolWhaddup—I have indeed seen Rogue One. I don't normally write fanfic after only a single viewing of something, but I do have an idea for how a small, one-shot gap-filler with Jyn and Cassian might go, so I'll post that tomorrow (Monday). I generally don't do Romance, so don't expect miracles.  
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	27. Blame

_Author_ _'s note #1: This chapter is rated M for violence, some of it graphic. If you don't like graphic violence, you can miss out the worst of it by stopping at "Once, when he'd been seven years old…" and then resuming at "If these guys have a similar setup to the last guys…" I hate the way this site automatically filters out M-rated stories, so for now I'm keeping the story as T, but will warn on chapters which contain M-material like this. It won't happen very often._

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _27\. Blame_

Fighting had been a part of Bucky's life for as long as he could remember. After returning from the Great War, his father had bought the second floor of an old dye production factory in East Flatbush and turned it into a boxing club. Dad believed in starting fighters off young, so at the age of five, Bucky had punched bags. At seven, he'd done light sparring. At nine, he'd begun training for real, and at fourteen he'd won his first championship. Excitement and nerves were natural, but as he got older, and got used to the matches, the less nervous he'd become. Now, he could step into the ring for a match and be entirely focused on the fight, on his opponent, on the tactics he would use.

It wasn't much different on the streets. He'd rarely ever been bullied himself, because he'd always been tall for his age, but he'd spent many long years pulling bullies off Steve, starting with Danny Cavanagh, when they'd been kids, right up to the last guy Bucky had seen off behind the cinema, the day before he'd arrived at Camp Shanks. At first, he'd felt that same nervous excitement. Each time he'd jumped in to defend his friend, he'd anticipated having to fight. But most of the time, bullies didn't know how to fight; not _really_. They relied on size to overcome a smaller, weaker opponent. Bucky had never been smaller or weaker; the upper hand had always been his. After a few years, stepping into the fray to help his pal had ceased to be a risk, and become more of a chore. Something he could do with a cool, clear head, and a calmness inside his chest.

Now, crouched in the pouring rain without his poncho to keep him dry, listening to the fast-paced breathing of the men pressed in around him, he fought for that same calm. Tried to push away the nerves and the fear. This wasn't a matter of strength, or fitness; he _knew_ he was physically fit and strong enough to kill someone with a knife. Rather, he feared that when the time came, his resolve might waver. That he would ruin his own plan and get his friends killed. That he would be dishonourably discharged and shipped back home in shame, all because he couldn't do what needed to be done.

"Deploy the jammers," he instructed over the radio, once the teams had reported they were all in position.

"Deployed," said Gusty, who set Delta Team's jammer just a few paces away.

" _Done,_ " Jones' team confirmed.

" _Done,"_ added Carrot.

Bucky swallowed. This was it. Fifteen minutes. The bunker's comms had just gone dark, which meant they were committed.

"Tex?" he asked.

He didn't need a verbal response. Up in a tree somewhere nearby, something metallic went _'plink!'_

" _Detector is out of action,"_ Tex reported.

"Alright, Jones, hold up the decoy. Let's see if there are any more detectors."

The head-on-a-stick appeared from the ground, where Jones and his team lay prone, their bodies pressed close to the earth. They crawled forward by a few paces, close enough to be within another detector's active radius. Nothing happened. Bucky's emotions momentarily flew before sinking sharply. This meant they would proceed with his plan. But it meant _they would proceed with his plan._

"All teams, go," he said.

He heard, more than saw, the teams spring into action. Bravo Team converged on the bunker, where they would be giving each other a leg-up to the gunner position. Meanwhile, Wells led Charlie and Delta Teams into the trench, the Universal Key hugged tightly to his chest. When Bucky slid into the trench, he took the position on the other side of the door, then whispered orders to half the men to set a guard. To their credit, they obeyed in silence, their rifles held in firing position, ready to shoot at any hostile to come into range. Bucky handed the radio to Gusty; he didn't want to take it into the bunker with him, in case it made a noise and gave his presence away.

Now for the moment of truth. Wells held the Universal Key in place and pressed the green button. If it didn't work, they would have to go to Plan B—try to draw the Nazis outside, into a firefight. Hope they wouldn't lose too many men. And then Bucky wouldn't have to go back and tell the colonel that he'd come up with the mad idea of sneaking into the bunker and assassinating the men inside it.

There was a sound, like quiet, mechanical grinding. It came from the door. Wells pulled the Universal Key away, and tried the handle. The door opened, and in the middle of the downpour, Bucky's mouth went dry. Right in the middle of another moment of fearful elation, Wells slipped in through the door, and Bucky was forced to follow him. He didn't feel prepared. Couldn't feel prepared. This was too much. Too fast. But they were on the clock. He didn't want to kill anyone. Especially didn't want to have to kill people with his knife. Didn't even want to kill them with his gun. But he had to. This was why he was here. It was what he had signed up for.

The rain ceased to soak him as he stepped into the shelter of the bunker. A few paces ahead, Wells had his flashlight out, and it cast a dim yellow beam by which they managed to navigate the stairs. Knives in hand, they crept forward as quietly as possible, but to Bucky's ears the tiny noises they made sounded deafening. Their breaths seemed to fill the air and echo down the bare, unfurnished corridor, whilst each step was accompanied by a _squelch_ of their sodden boots. The rustle of their soaked clothes seemed impossibly loud, as did the patter of rain coming from the open door behind them.

His hand shook. There was no denying it, but at least Wells was in front, where he couldn't see how badly the knife trembled in Bucky's grasp. _Cold_ , he lied to himself. _I_ _'m just shaking because of the cold. That's it._ It had nothing to do with the tiny thread of stark terror that was quickly winding its way up his spine.

A loud laugh from the door to the right stopped him dead in his tracks. His heart beat so fast, so madly, that he could actually hear it in his own ears, and he expected at any moment the door would open and its occupants would find two American soldiers poised for a knife attack. When that didn't happen, Wells gestured to the door on the left, his face a better mask of calm than Bucky thought he was managing. He nodded, and Wells quietly opened the door and slipped inside. Bucky followed.

Once, when he'd been seven years old, he'd crept downstairs in the dead of night to try and catch Santa in the act of delivering presents. Despite knowing each creaky floorboard, despite being familiar with the places he needed to step to avoid making any noise, he'd still felt anxious and giddy as he crept past his parents' bedroom and down the old staircase. He knew his parents could, at any moment, wake up and catch him in the act, but he also knew that he couldn't go back to bed. He'd come too far for turning back.

So it was now, only his parents had been replaced by two sleeping Germans, one in either of the bottom bunks. Made sense. Split the guard duty. Two awake, two asleep. Wells kept the flashlight beam low, and Bucky could just about make out their pale faces. One of them was snoring softly, the other sleeping in silence. Their expressions were slack, peaceful… hard to believe these men supported a regime that murdered thousands of defenceless men, women and children, all because they didn't conform to the Nazi ideal of Teutonic perfection.

As he picked one of the men, and listened to Wells move into place beside the other, he let his thoughts dwell on that. In his mind's eye, he saw the Nazi atrocities; families torn apart, parents sent to work-camps, children killed—and then he brought it home. Thought of his own family forced to endure everything people in Europe were going through. Mary-Ann, Charlie and Janet sent off to do menial labour, his parents tortured for the purpose of medical experimentation, Steve and all their friends from school confined to concentration camps where they were slowly starved…

He let the image build, feeding his anger, his desire to put a stop to the injustices before they could start on American soil; before his family could become victims simply because their ancestors may have had the 'wrong' blood, or because they might dare to stand up against the oppression of fascism. Onto the face of the man in the bed, he tried to see a different face; a pale, moon-shaped, dour face with beady little eyes and a ridiculous little moustache. This man didn't just _support_ Hitler, he told himself; this man _was_ Hitler. And Bucky could strike now. Save millions. Protect his family. Protect his friends. Take one step closer to the end of the war. One step closer to going home and seeing the people he loved again.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Wells watching him, and before he could talk himself out of it—and whilst still seeing the face of Hitler mentally imposed on the sleeping man before him—he gave a nod. As he leant forward, he felt detachment. Felt part of himself let go. Free from the shackles of morality, he brought his left hand firmly down, clamping over the mouth of the sleeping man, and at the same time, pressed hard with the knife, slashing from one side of the soft neck to the other. He felt the _crunch_ of cartilage severed, felt the jerk of the body as it reacted to the sharp, deadly pain. Felt a harsh intake of breath through the nose as the sleeping man woke and tried to draw air through a windpipe that made a slick, bloody, gasping, wheezing noise because it no longer worked properly. Saw the panic in his eyes as the pinprick of light began to dim within them. Felt movement as hands came instinctively up to the neck, to try and stem the flow of blood which poured out from the jugular vein and spurted rapidly from the carotid artery. Felt the weak twitching as the man tried to struggle against his fate. It took almost a minute for the struggling and twitching to stop. A minute for the eyelids to slide closed once and for all. A minute to kill someone in silence.

And then the thing that had let go, took hold again. Every muscle in his body felt like jelly, and it was all he could do to grab hold of the bunk and stop himself sliding to the floor. His left hand was warm, damp, and when he realised it was wet with blood, he quickly reached out and wiped it on the woollen blanket of the bed. Then he did the same with his knife; not because he thought the blade would corrode from the moisture in the blood, but because he didn't want to have to turn around and see the same thing happening behind him.

At that moment, he wished he'd come alone. Knowing that he wasn't alone in this had helped to get him to through the front door… but now he'd just killed a guy in his sleep. Slit his throat and silenced his death cries. Inside, his mind was in turmoil held at bay only by the knowledge that the mission wasn't over yet. But if somebody saw that turmoil, if he saw it within someone else, if he had to speak and in any way acknowledge what he had just done, he didn't think he could keep those floodgates closed.

The moment of silence went on, and Bucky let it. He knew he had to move, to take care of the rest of the mission—maybe even check that Wells was okay, since he'd expected some off the cuff remark by now—but he couldn't bring himself to do it. For as long as he stayed still, and quiet, time didn't pass. And if he could stay still and quiet forever, time would forever stand still, at this moment, a moment in which he lived behind a mask of numb acceptance. If time didn't pass, he would never have go to anywhere, and nobody would ever have to find out what he'd done.

"I'm going to find answers," Wells said at last.

"To what?" Bucky asked without turning.

"To that." He followed the beam of the flashlight to the flag on the wall. Here, residing over the scene of death, the red skull had a macabre feel to it that made his insides writhe. "To these," Wells continued, as the light jumped from one dead body to the other. "To who these people are, and why it's so damn important that we not take prisoners."

Answers. Yes. Whatever was going on here, it was clearly more than a Nazi communications bunker. They had tech that impressed Stark. Colonel Phillips was real twitchy about those guys in German uniforms who had come over with Hawkswell's taskforce. If the local Resistance was so good at making Nazis disappear in these parts, why not just leave the bunkers to them? In fact, why not just roll over them with the tanks? It wasn't as if the company didn't have enough artillery to turn the bunkers to rubble. Why bring along Stark? Why Agent Carter? Why would a _scientific_ division be here in the first place? There was something shady going on, and in answers, Bucky might find some justification for the actions he had taken today.

"I'll help," he said. "I want answers, too."

"I was hoping you'd say that." Wells stood, offering him a shaky hand. When Bucky looked up to his friend's face, he was met with a defiant glare. "I'm wet through and freezing."

Bucky let himself be pulled to his feet. "Then let's finish what we started." Time to wrap this up. To do what needed to be done and get back to camp.

At the door, he pulled the handle, then froze with the door open by a tiny crack as a voice called out in German.

" _Hallo! Leutnant Schulz!"_

The door opposite the bunk room opened, and Bucky's breath caught in his throat. A German soldier, wearing what looked like an off-duty uniform, stepped out of the small kitchen/dining room and looked at someone further down the corridor as he answered.

"Ja?"

" _Die mitteilungen sind nach unten. Gehen sie nach draußen und überprüfen sie die gericht."_

"Aber es regnet da draußen!"

" _Die gericht anschlüsse haben mit wasser voll. Ich brauche dich, es auszuprobieren, während ich die comms überwachen."_

"Verdammt! Gut, ich werde gehen und zu sehen."

Bucky heard the door further down the corridor close, and the soldier disappeared back into the other room. He wasn't gone for long, and when he reappeared, he was donning a blue waterproof jacket. Wells, who had his face pressed to the crack of the open door a little further down from Bucky, gave a quiet hiss.

"If he goes up the corridor, he'll see the outside door open, and raise the alarm!"

Before he could talk himself out of it, Bucky opened the door and ran as quietly as he could on his tiptoes. Height, weight and strength were on his side. As he reached the back of the soldier he grabbed him from behind, clamping his left hand over the mouth and drawing his knife across the neck once more. Again, he felt the panicked flail as his victim tried to struggle, to call out, to reach for his ruined neck, but this time, unconsciousness was quicker. With his arms covered with still-spurting blood, Bucky let gravity slowly lower the body to the floor. There was no chance of the man recovering from that. This time, he managed to keep the jelly-limbs feeling at bay.

When he turned back, Wells was drawing his pistol and flicking the safety catch off.

"If these guys have a similar setup to the last guys," Wells whispered, as Bucky approached. There was nothing but distant professionalism in his blue eyes, "then that means one more guy in here, and one in the comms room. I'll take this one, you deal with the communications officer."

"Alright."

When he exchanged his knife for his Colt, the gun felt a comfortable weight in his grip. His Colt had always felt the most comfortable of all his weapons, but he'd never been able to put his finger on why. Now, as he prepared to use it for the first time, he knew.

His dad had brought home his Great War service revolver; a Smith & Wesson 1899. On the rare occasions when he brought it out to clean it, he let Bucky hold it in his hands. _The weight of the past_. Dad had taught him to respect all weapons, including his own fists. Any weapon—even fists—could be used to kill. Of the revolver, Dad had told him that the gun had saved his life on three separate occasions. Until now, Bucky hadn't realised what that really meant. He hadn't equated the gun saving his dad's life, to his dad using the gun to kill people. But that's what had happened. His dad had used his gun to kill people in a war just like this one. Then he'd gone home to his family and either lived a happy, normal life, or faked it pretty well. If Dad could do those things, then so could Bucky. And one day, when he had a son of his own, he might even bring out this Colt, and tell his son how the weapon had saved his old man's life.

A loud _BANG!_ from the room behind him made him jump, and he mentally kicked himself for wasting time on nostalgia. Raising the Colt, he pushed open the door, took aim at the first thing that moved, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

"I surrender!" the German, paused halfway to reaching for a rifle that was leaning against the table, cried at the sight of Bucky staring down his pistol.

 _Shit._

He finally remembered to flick the safety off. Holding the gun trained on the guy's chest, he waited. Any minute now, the guy would finish reaching for his gun, and Bucky would have to shoot him. Any minute now. He just had to wait.

There was an echo of footsteps down the corridor outside, and Wells came running to a dead stop beside Bucky. His pistol was drawn, but not aimed.

"You didn't shoot him!"

"I forgot to take my safety off, and he surrendered."

"Shit," Wells sighed. "Well, you know what the colonel said. No prisoners."

"I know. But he _surrendered_. And maybe shooting prisoners who've surrendered is okay for the colonel, but it doesn't sit right with me."

"You just need an incentive." Wells lifted his gun and pointed it at the panic-stricken Kraut. Judging by his expression, he spoke English just fine. "You, reach for your gun so that he can shoot you."

"I… surrender?" the German offered. Desperation haunted his grey eyes. His lower lip wobbled. God, if the guy started crying, there was no way Bucky was gonna be able to shoot him.

"You're not allowed to surrender. Now, reach for your gun so that one of us can shoot you!"

"I surrender!" Not only did the Kraut _not_ reach for his gun, he actually backed away from it.

"Dammit!" growled Wells, holstering his pistol. He turned to Bucky, a suggestion already on his lips. "What if we get a firing squad together? We've all got rifles; they don't all need to have bullets."

"We can't ask the men to do that," Bucky objected immediately. "This is our problem. We gotta fix it ourselves. That's why we have chevrons."

"Okay. Okay. Then… we've got first aid kits. Morphine tartrate. We give him two or three shots, and he goes to sleep. He doesn't have to wake up."

"That… that's doable. But maybe we should question him, first. Maybe he can give us some answers."

"Good idea." Bucky kept his gun trained on the man as Wells took a step forward. "What's the significance of that flag in your bunk room? You Nazis got a new symbol to replace your swastika?"

The Kraut raised his chin, and when he spoke, his clipped accent was full of defiance. "I will not say anything. You are going to kill me anyway. I will not die a traitor."

"Looks like we'll have to find answers from our side," Bucky told his friend.

He looked at the German and felt the weight of something heavy settle in his stomach. Either way, this man had to die. Whether they injected him, or shot him, or left him for Phillips… his time was up. As much as he hated the thought of killing another unarmed man, he hated the thought of letting him go even more. Bucky Barnes was no traitor. He could only hope that Phillips knew what he was doing, when he ordered Bucky and Wells to take no prisoners. As for sedating him… what if using the morphine on this soldier who was to die, meant somebody who might live was deprived of it later? It wasn't as if they could just drive down to the drug store to get more supplies. This was all they had.

"Why don't you go check on the rest of the team?" Bucky told his friend. "I'll deal with this guy."

"Or, you go check on the team, and I'll deal with him," Wells suggested.

He shook his head. "It's my fault we're in this position. I messed up with my safety catch. I'm perfectly capable of cleaning up my own messes."

"I know you are. But you've already killed more of them than I have. This would make us even."

"Jeez, Wells, it's not a contest!"

"I know it's not a contest!" his friend scowled, lifting his hand to grab the barrel of the pistol. "It's just about what's fair. You shouldn't have to be the one to do most of the killing. Let this one be on me."

"Since when do you care about what's fair?"

"Since about five minutes ago. Now, let go of your damn gun."

"No. And seriously, let go of _my_ damn gun," Bucky warned.

"Fine. I have my own damn gun. I'll just use that."

Bucky lashed out quickly with his free hand, grabbing Wells' wrist before he could reach his Colt. Wells scowled at him again. Or maybe it was just a continuation of the previous scowl. Either way, his blue eyes flashed angrily.

"Let go of my wrist, Barnes."

"Let go of my gun first."

"I'm going to give you a count of three to let go of my damn wrist."

"I'm not letting go of your damn wrist until you let go of my damn gun."

"Three."

"If you make me fight you over this I'm going to be extremely pissed off," he warned his friend.

"Two."

 _BANG!_

Bucky's heart stopped. _Oh god_. He'd fired his gun. In the chaos of the struggle, he'd pulled the trigger too tightly. Misfired. And with Wells practically standing in the pistol's line of fire. In front of him, Wells' face was pale, his eyes wide. But he wasn't bleeding. Thank god, by some miracle, he wasn't bleeding.

The Kraut slumped to the floor, blood spilling from a wound in the centre of his chest. Two gasps. Three. Four. Foamy blood bubbled on his lips, and his eyes roamed the ceiling as if seeing beyond it. He managed two words, choked out with the fervency of a true believer.

" _Hail… Hydra."_

And then he was gone, his eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling, the bubbles of blood falling still.

"He killed Tipper."

Turning slowly, with his finger as far away from his Colt's trigger as he could get it, he saw Gusty standing in the open doorway, his pistol in his hands, still aiming at the dead German. Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat as a wave of desperate relief washed over him. It wasn't his gun that had gone off. He hadn't accidentally shot his friend.

"If not him, then one of his mine-laying Nazi buddies," Gusty continued, his gaze as fixed as his pistol's aim. "He deserved it. They all do." He finally looked up at his sergeants frozen in their tableau of struggle. "And I'm not digging holes. They can lie out for the crows and the flies, for all I care." He turned and left.

Bucky let go of Wells' wrist. Wells let go of Bucky's Colt. For a moment, they simply stood staring at the enemy soldier who'd been the cause of their disagreement. The whole thing seemed extremely stupid, now.

"You wanna walk in the pouring rain, or dig in the pouring rain?" Wells asked at last.

Bucky sighed slowly, deeply. He wanted nothing more than to see the back of this place, but Wells had done most of the digging last time. It was only fair Bucky do it this time. "I'll dig, if you don't mind explaining to the colonel why the mission took so long. But take Gusty with you."

"Sure. I'll be back in a few hours. If he asks, I'll tell him nobody surrendered. We should probably keep this quiet. Don't wanna get Gusty in trouble." He hovered by the door for a moment. "And Barnes—"

"I know." In fact, he was thinking about having the words, _'I'm sorry'_ embroidered on the front of his jacket. Maybe it would save him having to say it so much. He seemed to have a lot to apologise for, these days. Much more than he ever had before signing up.

When Wells departed, Bucky spent a few minutes hating war. Not just for what it was doing to himself, but what it was doing to those around him. Tipper was dead, and everybody else had to live with that. A week ago, Gusty had been a nice, reliable guy who'd gotten nervous and shy about the thought of talking to a dame. Now his stare defaulted to a thousand yards, and when he spoke it was as if all the joy had been sucked out of his soul. And worse; Bucky had no idea how he could fix it.

His wandering gaze fell on a pencil on the table, and an idea sprang to mind. He seized it as a welcome distraction from his thoughts about death. He finally holstered his gun, and picked up the pencil, then left the communications room. Ordered, _"Start digging some graves!"_ to the men waiting at the top of the corridor. In the bunk room, he rifled through the books on the shelf until he found one with a decent cover left plain on the inside. He ripped the cover from the book, and tried to ignore the dead bodies and the pools of blood as he sketched out the macabre emblem from the flag.

Sure, he was no Steve Rogers, but he'd always done a decent job at drawing. Wells was right; whatever this flag was, it was something important. So important that their prisoner had clammed up and refused to flap his lips about it. It meant something. It _had_ to mean something. Once they returned to camp, he would make a start on identifying whatever the hell this was. And maybe, finally, they could find some long-overdue answers.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note #2 (AKA, shameless self-promotion): I'll be publishing a new one-shot on Friday—a crossover between Captain America and Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. I saw the latter at the cinema last week, and as it's set in New York in the 1920s, when Our Heroes are just kids, I decided it was too good an opportunity to pass up. If you've seen (and enjoyed) the movie and would like to know exactly how Steve and Bucky fit in to a world of magical creatures rampaging around New York City, keep an eye out for Fantastic Heroes and Where to Find Them. If you've no interest in that, you can enjoy a fun-filled Sunday update here instead! And I'm not being sarcastic or flippant, there; it will be an actual fun-filled update, with actual fun.  
_


	28. Carrot's Cake

We Were Soldiers

 _28\. Carrot_ _'s Cake_

It was midday, and the persistent rain of the past twenty-four hours had finally relented, petering out to a light drizzle. As he walked from the mess tent back to the 107th's barracks, Bucky tried to dodge the worst of the puddles, to keep his boots as mud-free as possible. By the time he made it back to the shelter of the tent, the formerly shiny black leather was caked up to the bottom of his laces.

 _Great._

Inside the barracks, several of the 107th, who'd opted to sleep in following their late-night mission, were finally rousing. Bucky found Wells in a state of half-dress beside his bed, a groggy, just-woken expression on his face.

"I'm worried about Gusty," he said, as Wells buckled up his pants.

"I'm worried about me. Look at this," his friend replied, sliding his thumbs beneath his belt and pulling it away from his stomach.

"It's your belt. So?"

"So I've had to tighten it by a whole notch! You know what that means, don't you?"

Bucky shrugged. He'd had to tighten his belt by a notch a week earlier. He'd gone to sleep still hungry for so many nights that he no longer felt hunger in the same way. Back home, his mom had insisted on three hearty meals per day, and there were always snacks to be had. His exercise regime had mostly consisted of boxing-related activities, which had kept him fit and pretty strong.

He was still fit, still strong, but he was leaner. The portions served in the mess were smaller than those his mother insisted on giving him, but it was the walking that had caused him to drop weight. Each time the camp was moved, they undertook loaded marches of anywhere between five and twenty-five klicks. They carried not only their own gear, but their tents and communal equipment, too. And even when the camp stayed put for a couple of days, there were still patrols to be done, and scouting parties to be sent out. Sometimes, exhaustion suppressed hunger.

"It means we're slowly being starved to death," Wells answered himself. "Another six months and we'll be walking skeletons!"

"You're hardly starving," Bucky scoffed, as Wells pulled his shirt over his head and scowled at him.

"I obviously am, or I wouldn't have to tighten my belt, would I?"

"Your body's just adapting to doing lots of marching."

"My body wasn't made for doing lots of marching."

"I guess you should'a joined the Navy, then."

Wells flipped him the two-fingered salute. "What's this about Gusty?"

"Like I said, I'm worried about him. He just seems so… down."

"Of course he's down. The first time he got to lead a team, he saw a guy exploded by a mine. He probably sees that every time he closes his eyes."

"Any suggestions on how to cheer him up? And don't say 'dames'," he added, when Wells grinned and opened his mouth.

"You can't shoot down my ideas before I've given them. That's just plain unfair. Anyway, dames always cheer me up. What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong with that is that we're not exactly in downtown Brooklyn. We have a distinct lack of dames in this camp."

"We could force Hodge to dress up like a dame," said Wells. "It would be hilarious. Ooh, or we could get Tex to dress up as Hodge, and Mex to dress up as Agent Carter, and have them re-enact that famous punch which knocked him on his ass."

Bucky treated his friend to a long, level stare. "Sometimes I really worry about you."

"Agent Carter punched me, and I didn't get knocked on my ass."

"Could you focus on Gusty for a moment?"

"That's what I'm doing! I think he'd get a kick out of seeing that."

"Look, it's his birthday tomorrow," Bucky told him. "I overheard him mention it to Hawkins, before Tipper died. I think we should do something nice for him. We could… bake him a birthday cake."

" _We?_ Why are you always dragging me into your crazy schemes?"

"Whose idea was it to sit outside in a storm on the _Monty_? Or to give Danzig laxative chocolate? Not to mention that night in Plymouth? The pot's got no right to call the kettle black. Anyway, this isn't crazy, and it's not a scheme, but I need your expertise."

Wells flopped down on his bed and gave a defeated sigh. "Have I ever given you the impression that I know how to make a birthday cake?"

Bucky clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I have just the guy in mind for that part."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"But Sarge, I don't know how to bake!" Biggs complained.

Bucky stared at the private. "Biggs, you baked a birthday cake for your mom, even though it's not her birthday till December. This is _literally_ something you can do in your sleep."

"But it didn't taste good, Sarge. And just because I did it in my sleep, doesn't mean I'd know how to do it when I'm awake."

"I'll do it," Carrot piped up from the makeshift poker table. "I used to do baking with my mom all the time."

"Finding your inner house-wife?" Wells asked.

"It's lots of fun, Sarge. And she always let me lick the spoon, afterwards."

"That sounds wrong in so many ways."

"Alright, Carrot," said Bucky. "You can do the cake. But first, we need to get you into the kitchen."

"And decide what flavour cake you want," Carrot said, and tossed down his cards. He accidentally tossed them face-up, and the rest of the players at the table groaned when they saw he'd had a full house. Poor Carrot still hadn't gotten the hang of folding correctly.

"You can do flavours?"

"Sure. Though, it depends on what ingredients they have in the kitchen. I'll need an assistant, too. To help me measure things, and stir things, and… things."

"Wells would be thrilled to help you," said Bucky, clapping a firm hand onto his friend's shoulder to prevent him escaping.

"Why are you punishing me like this?" Wells moaned in a wheedling tone.

"C'mon, Sarge, it'll be fun," said Carrot. "I'll even let you lick the spoon!"

"Never, ever say that again, Corporal."

"Has anyone seen Davies?" Bucky asked, and received a chorus of 'no' in return.

"What about Mex?" prompted Wells. "Anyone seen him?"

"Yeah," said Franklin, "he went to play dice with a few guys from the 370th."

"Ugh. The 370th are all the way across the other side of the camp." Wells looked down at his boots and gave a forlorn sigh. "I only just got them clean from last night."

"Come on," Bucky said. No amount of trawling through the mud was gonna bring him down. If it helped to cheer Gusty up, he would do it gladly, a thousand times over. "You too, Carrot."

Thoughts of baked goods were on his mind, so as they crossed the squelching, muddy ground, he was struck by how very pie-like the camp was. The 107th had a wedge, and next to them was the 69th's slice of ground. On the other side of their wedge was the motor pool and the medical tent, and a little further away, the chaplain's tent and the nurses' barracks. The 370th had the final slice of pie, and right in the middle of the whole dish was the command tent, and the tent where Stark spent most of his time coming up with new inventions.

Dozens of dark faces turned to watch Bucky and Wells and Carrot as they squelched their way through the 370th's section of the camp. There were some faces Bucky recognised by sight, but most of the men here were strangers to him. He hadn't socialised much with the members of the 370th… then again, he hadn't socialised much with the 69th, either, and what little socialising had been done was mostly in the form of regiment vs. regiment competitions. Keeping an eye on the 107th—and its members out of trouble—took up most of his time.

"You fellas lost?" the 370th's dark-skinned captain called from beneath the regimental tent awning.

"We're looking for Private Hernandez," Bucky told him. "We heard he was maybe playing dice over here."

"Check around back. There are a couple of dice games going on right now."

"Thanks, Captain..?"

"Banks."

Around the back of the tent, they found a patch of drier ground and two groups of men playing different games of dice. Mex was at the second game, and judging by the grin on his face, he was doing well for himself.

"Aw, hell," Mex grumbled, when he caught sight of the others. "Oh, hey Sergeants, Corporal, fancy seeing you guys all the way out here. Have you come to play dice?"

"We're looking for Davies," Bucky told him.

"He's not here."

"Obviously not. Do you know where he is?"

"Nope."

"Hernandez, you lying rat," growled Wells. "There's nothing going on in this camp that either you or Davies doesn't know about. Now, wherever he is, spit it out."

"I can't say!"

Wells shot a scowl at him. "He's making moonshine, isn't he? That bastard, I knew he had access to another still somewhere. If you don't tell us where he is, Mex, you're gonna be on foxhole duty for the rest of your nights, and latrine duty for all of your days."

"Aww, Sarge, that's unfair!"

"Damn right it's unfair. So what's it gonna be?"

Mex glanced around, and seemed to realise for the first time that everybody at the game was paying real close attention to the conversation. He squirmed a little before responding.

"Alright, fine. I'll tell you. But I gotta whisper it to you, and you're not allowed to tell anyone else."

So Mex whispered something to Wells, who gave the private a somewhat disbelieving look.

"Seriously? Why does he always have to pick the most dangerous places to make his bootleg liquor?"

"Because he's crazy. Can I get back to my game now?"

"Yeah, sure. C'mon Barnes, Carrot."

They set off after Wells, back the way they'd already come. By now, Bucky had given up all attempts at keeping his boots clean and dry. He trudged through the mud, resigned to another night of vigorous polishing.

"So, where's the still?" he asked.

Wells grimaced. "You know that area behind the motor pool, where they keep and closely guard the camp's supply of gasoline?"

"They're making gas-flavoured moonshine?!" Carrot gasped, his blue eyes wide with horror.

Bucky tried not to grin as Wells shook his head.

"No, Carrot, contrary to what your dear Mom might'a told you, making moonshine near gas does not make gas-flavoured moonshine. There is, in fact, no such thing as gas-flavoured moonshine. The addition of gas to alcohol would be highly poisonous and would cause anybody drinking it to go blind. Not even Davies is that crazy."

They made it as far as the front of the motor pool before they were intercepted by an on-duty mechanic. The guy stepped forward and brushed his hands on overalls that somehow managed to be cleaner than Bucky's mud-spattered uniform.

"Sorry guys, but general personnel aren't allowed beyond this point."

"They are if you don't want Colonel Hawkswell finding out about your illegal moonshine still," Wells threatened.

The mechanic issued a frosty glare. "You wouldn't."

"It's no skin off my nose. All we wanna do is go talk to Davies. If you wanna play hardball, then so be it."

"Alright, you can go on in," the man relented. "But if the brass find out, I'm gonna know who to blame."

"You know blackmailing is bad for your karma, don't you?" Bucky asked his friend, as the mechanic stepped aside to allow them to pass.

"I'll take one for the team. Besides, bad karma for a good cause kinda balances out into a unique equilibrium."

"Plus, you want to stuff yourself with cake because you think you're being starved," Bucky pointed out.

"Yes, there is also that."

Several of the jeeps had been parked in such a way that they screened the back of the motor pool from outside observation. They found Davies and another Pfc. from the 9th Infantry sequestered between the jeeps and a tank, beneath a small awning designated for gasoline storage. Though Bucky had an uncle who brewed his own cider, he'd never seen a distillery before, and what he saw under the awning was both fascinating and impressive to behold. Three small metal containers had been painted in the army's standard olive drab, and various copper and glass pipes connected them in a series of twists and spirals. A camping-sized propane gas heater was beneath one of the containers, presumably keeping the contents at a fairly steady temperature. The last container in the chain had a small tap on the side of it, and water poured out from the bottom of a funnelled chute, into a bucket placed below. The whole thing looked like some sort of crazy science experiment.

"Wells. Barnes. Carrot," said Davies, when he spotted the three approaching. "I see Mex squealed."

"Like a pig," Wells nodded.

"I'll have words with him later. So. Whaddya want?"

"Before we get down to business," Bucky interrupted, with a gesture to the still, "what the hell are you even making moonshine out of, Davies?"

"Potatoes."

"Seriously? Where did you get potatoes from?"

"Grew them."

"How?!"

Davies sighed and looked over to the other Pfc. "Keep an eye on the still. I'll be back in a few minutes. Come with me, you three, if you want to be inducted into the magical world of illegal alcohol production."

He took them around to the other side of the gasoline store, where a second, smaller awning had been set up. This one didn't look official; it was patched together with different materials, not just the khaki colour of the main tents, but grey, beige, olive drab and, in one or two places, bright red. Under the awning were three standard-issue footlockers, two of them open to display their contents, one of them closed.

"When I left home, I took with me half a dozen potatoes which were sprouting," Davies began. "They were planted in fertilised soil, in these," he handed over a battered old steel helmet into the bottom of which holes had been drilled, "and watered daily until we reached England. There, I transferred the growing plants to these footlockers." He gestured at the two footlockers which were full of soil, and from out of which multiple plants were growing.

"How'd you get footlockers full of potatoes onto the _King George_?" Bucky asked him.

"I have connections in logistics."

Carrot lifted the lid of the third locker, and Davies reached out quickly to slam it down, damn near taking the corporal's fingers off.

"Do not open that," Davies glowered at him.

Carrot's eyes opened a fraction wider. "Why? What's in it?"

"Mushrooms." He rolled his eyes at the expression on Bucky's face. "The normal, edible kind. They're at the stage where they need to be kept hot and humid. Just… don't touch anything, okay?"

Bucky opened his mouth, to ask about getting Carrot into the mess, but a strange _brwoaaaaakkk bwaaak bwaaak brwoaaaaakkk_ sound from nearby froze him on the spot. Instead of asking about the mess, he asked, "The hell was that?"

"That might be the chickens."

"You smuggled _chickens_ from Last Stop?!"

"Please tell me you incubated them in your boots," said Wells.

Davies shook his head. "Not even I'm that good. No, these are locally sourced birds. Seems the 9th got stranded here en route to England from Africa. They did some trade with the local Resistance, and were given a few chickens to eat. The SSR got here before the 9th had to resort to chicken slaughter, and when we arrived, Phillips instructed the 9th to hand the birds over to the mess, to be turned into fried chicken. We saw potential for egg production and intercepted the chickens before they could be killed."

"We?" Bucky asked. "Who exactly do these chickens belong to? In fact, who does _any_ of this belong to?"

The explanation was accompanied by a brief shrug. "There's a syndicate."

Bucky glanced to Wells, who held up both hands in self defence. "Hey, don't look at me; I'm not a member. Though, if I'd known you had eggs, I probably would have applied before now."

"How do you even keep chickens hidden from the brass, Davies?" Carrot asked. "Also, can I look at your chickens?"

"No. And we keep them hidden by keeping them covered when we move. When it's dark, they go quiet. We have a mobile chicken run that we set up a short way outside camp, and we keep a guard on it at all times. Unfortunately, today's been too wet for them to go out."

"Do they have names? Can we name one 'Henrietta'?"

Davies gave Carrot a look so stony that it was carved entirely from granite. "No. They have numbers based upon their level of productivity. This isn't a petting zoo, Carrot, it's a business."

"Aww."

"And speaking of business, what are you guys _actually_ doing here?"

"We need to get into the mess kitchen so we can bake a birthday cake for Gusty," said Bucky. "Can you help us?"

Davies reached into his pocket and brought out a licorice root, which he chewed thoughtfully while the chickens clucked quietly in the background. Carrot kept peering in the direction of the sound, clearly dying to see them for himself.

"It would be easier to get someone from the kitchen staff to bake the cake for you," Davies said at last.

"We wanna do it ourselves," said Bucky, before either of the others could object. "It makes it more personal."

"Alright, it's your funeral," Davies shrugged. "But it's gonna cost you a month's worth of extra foxhole duty."

 _A month?!_ It was more than Bucky had been expecting. Much more than the packet of smokes it had cost to get a rose to Samantha.

"How come the cost's so high?" he asked. "We only wanna bake a cake. It didn't cost nearly so much to help Carrot, back at Last Stop."

"But that was back at Last Stop," explained Davies. "So we could basically do it at cost. Out here, time is the most valuable commodity to trade. In fact, it's about all we got to trade. Everything costs more, in the field."

Bucky glanced to Carrot and Wells. He was more than willing to pull a few extra guard duties, if it meant cheering Gusty up. In fact, if sixty members of the 107th volunteered for one extra guard duty each, that meant they'd only have to do it once, and only a third of the regiment need get involved. He was pretty damn sure he could get sixty guys to give up one night each, for Gusty. Everybody liked Gusty. Everybody who wasn't Jewish, presumably.

But Carrot and Wells would be the ones who had to pull this off. They had to bake the perfect birthday cake, and if it went wrong, those sixty members of the 107th would be pretty pissed.

"What the hell," said Wells. "I say go for it. I'm expecting good karma to catch up with me next year, and provide a delicious chocolate cake on my birthday. It needs to be three-tiered, with chocolate sprinkles, too. And a layer of cream somewhere."

"I'm in," Carrot agreed. "And I know everyone else will be, too."

"Looks like we have a deal," Bucky said to Davies.

"Alright," said Davies. "Now, here's what I need to make it happen."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Remind me again what this thing looks like," Bucky whispered, as he and Wells crept through the small tent and tried not to trip over items that lay strewn across the groundsheet.

"Thirty centimetres long, with a sort of loopy bit on one end, and a tapering point on the other end."

If the thing had a name, he hadn't been told it. Then again, knowing its name wouldn't help him locate the damn thing. Stark seemed to take a teenager's bedroom approach to storing his stuff; it wasn't so much stored, as casually discarded in random places.

"You check up there," he said, gesturing to the shelves behind the workbench. "I think he keeps boxes of stuff down here."

Bucky crouched down behind the workbench and pulled out one of the boxes in question. He opened the lid to find it filled with various different wires. Nothing like the item Davies had described. He put the box back and pulled out another. Halfway through rifling though it, he saw light as the tent flap was opened, and heard Wells quickly turn on the spot.

"Hey. Mr. Stark," Wells said. To someone who didn't know Wells, his greeting would have sounded casual. To Bucky, it sounded strained. And guilty. Very guilty.

Quietly, Bucky continued searching the box, hoping Wells could distract Stark for long enough.

"Oh, it's you," said Stark, in a tone that was less than impressed. "Sergeant… Sergeant…"

"Wells."

"Right. I knew that." Stark paused for a moment, and Bucky could imagine him looking around the tent for anything out of place. "Where's that other guy you're always hanging around with? You know…" Stark snapped his fingers a couple of times. "Private…"

"Sergeant…" Wells prompted.

"Right. Sergeant… Other-guy."

 _Holy mackerel!_ Stark really was _that bad_ with names! But Bucky didn't have time to think about that now. He continued quietly rooting through the box.

"He's in a foxhole."

"Oh. So, what're you doing in my tent?" Stark asked.

"Looking for you, obviously," scoffed Wells. "For… um… advice."

"Advice?"

"Yes. About… um… dames."

"Dames?"

"Specifically, Agent Carter." Wells' voice became a little less tense as he found a familiar conversation piece.

"Agent Carter?"

"Will you stop repeating everything I say?! Now look, you've known Agent Carter for a while, right?"

"I suppose if you want to be vague about the passage of time, then yes, I've known her for 'a while.'"

"Got any tips?" Wells asked. "I mean, I've tried all my usual tactics. I even let her punch me—"

"I heard about that." Bucky could _hear_ the smug grin in Stark's voice.

"But I can't seem to get her to warm up to me."

"Well, that's the thing. Peggy's not the kinda gal to fall for tricks. Oh, sorry, _tactics._ You've gotta be genuine."

"I am extremely genuine," Wells assured him, and Bucky snorted. As soon as he realised what he'd done, he clapped his hand over his mouth. _Idiot!_

Fortunately, Stark seemed not to have heard the snort. "She also likes men who are humble, generous, chivalrous and self-effacing."

 _Too bad Steve_ _'s not here,_ Bucky thought. _He sounds like Carter_ _'s type._

"I'm… two out of those four things, at least. So I'm halfway there. Can't you… y'know… put in a good word for me?"

"I don't really see how that would _help_ you."

Bucky's hand closed around something long and thin. As he brought the object out of the box, he dared to hope. At one end, he saw a loopy bit. The other end tapered to a point. _This was it!_ Whatever it was, it was what Davies had requested. Maybe it was just a really advanced toothpick. But that didn't matter. All that mattered was that he'd found it. Reaching out, he tapped Wells' leg, and his friend glanced down quickly at the object in Bucky's hand.

"Oh, okay," he told Stark. "I understand. But… um… I think I've got something in my eye. Can you check it for me? Outside? Where it's light enough to see?"

"Fine, fine. But let's make it quick; I have lots of important inventing to do."

Bucky waited until his friend had led Stark a short distance away. Waited until it sounded like Stark was taking a real good look at the nothing in Wells' eye. When he peered out from the tent, he saw Stark's back to him, and he quickly dashed out. As he made off with his ill-gotten gains, he heaved a big sigh of relief. Unfortunately, though, this… thing… wasn't the hardest item to get from Davies' list.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"I don't see why I have to do it," Bucky scowled.

"I told you," Wells replied, "I'm allergic to church. And priests. And all things religious, in fact."

"But I already told Lieutenant Olliver I'm not crazy. If I do this, he's not going to believe that anymore."

"Well… that's what you get for lying to a man of the cloth. Shame on you! Now, go do it, and make it quick."

When Bucky was shoved forward towards the church tent, he knew he had no other choice. But unlike Wells, he wasn't good at making up bullshit on the spot. He could think of no other way to get what he needed, except to ask for it.

"Sergeant Barnes!" Lieutenant Olliver smiled when he saw Bucky approach. It seemed a genuine smile. Lieutenant Olliver was a genuinely nice guy. "How nice to see you. I'm terribly sorry about what happened to young Private Tipper. Have you come to seek the comfort and clarity of the Lord?"

"Err, not exactly. I… um… actually, there was something else I wanted to ask you."

"Oh? And what's that?"

Taking a deep breath, he held out his flask of water. "Would you… err… bless my canteen?"

Lieutenant Olliver gave him a stare that suggested he'd thought Bucky was perfectly sane, and was now swiftly re-evaluating that impression.

"You… want me to bless your canteen?"

"Yes." Like lightning, inspiration struck. "It's for my friend, Sergeant Wells. You see, he got this new Army Editions book. _Dracula_. It's by Bram Stoker. Have you read it?"

"I try to avoid occult stories. I mostly read the Bible."

"Oh, right. Of course. Anyway, ever since he read it, he's been afraid of vampires," Bucky bullshitted.

"Does he know vampires aren't real?"

"I tell him that every night before bed, but you should see his face, all wide-eyed with fear, and he clutches his blanket so tightly that his knuckles go white. Anyway, I told him that vampires can be driven off by holy water, and he asked me to get some for him. He would've asked you himself, but he's in awe of religious figures."

"I see. Well." Poor Lieutenant Olliver looked completely at a loss. "Perhaps you should advise Sergeant Wells that regular attendance at church is the best vampire deterrent available."

Bucky nodded solemnly. Had to bite his bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud. Bit so hard that he actually tasted blood. His eyes began to water. "Oh, I certainly will, Father. But, could you just humour him on the holy water? He's already gone three nights without sleep. I'm afraid he won't be fit for duty if this carries on much longer."

Lieutenant Olliver gave a weary sigh, and Bucky felt momentarily sorry for him. This was probably the first time he'd been asked to bless water for the purpose of warding off vampires. They probably didn't even cover this in army priest school. Then again, he hadn't covered any of this during his training for sergeant. Clearly, an army education wasn't worth the paper it was written on.

The lieutenant held his hand over the canteen and mumbled a few words in Latin.

"There. It's done. I hope this allows Sergeant Wells to find sleep tonight. And please, bring him along to my services as soon as you're able. He sounds like a man in dire need of ministering to."

"I will. And thank you, Father. Thank you very much!"

He dashed off and rejoined Wells, who was waiting around the other side of the medical tent. As soon as he stopped, Wells punched his arm. Hard.

"Ow. Why?"

"Vampires?! You bastard," Wells glared.

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" he asked, rubbing his sore arm. "Anyway, it's not like you offered any better suggestions. Now, what's next on the list?"

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"What was it called, again?" Bucky asked, in a whispered shout.

Wells' returned whisper was just about audible through the canvas of the tent. " _Nicely Spiced_ , and hurry up; the longer I stand out here, the shiftier it looks."

"Hurry up," he grumbled under his breath. "Don't see you offering to do all the hard work." As he approached the first footlocker, he sent a silent prayer for forgiveness. Despite having… redistributed… several items already, he'd chosen to leave this one till last. Being here, doing this, made him feel like some sorta creep. Back home, if he'd found some guy rifling through his sisters' belongings, he would'a socked him hard. His mom had driven into him at a very young age that _Men Do Not Touch Women_ _'s Things._

Now, that was exactly what he was doing. Crouching down beside the footlocker, he opened it and tried to avert his gaze as he stuck his hands in. The contents of a soldier's footlocker were predictable, and pretty standard. Spare uniform, clean socks and underwear, a few books, maybe some writing equipment, and whatever contraband he'd managed to get his paws on. Bucky could stick his hands into a guy's footlocker and not have to worry about anything.

Not so, with a dame's. As he rifled through the contents, his fingers touched all sorts of strange—and possibly _forbidden_ —things. Things with hard wire in them. Things which did not conform to any recognisable shape. Things which rattled as he pushed them aside, and _oh god, was that lace?!_

When his hand finally brushed against something that felt bottle-like, he grasped the item and drew it out before he could accidentally touch anything else. Holding the delicate glass bottle up to what little light was available, he read the label on the front. _Peaches and Cream._ "Stupid name for a perfume," he grumbled again, and moved on to the next footlocker.

He was just moving on to his fourth footlocker when Wells hissed out the pre-arranged code-word to tell him someone was approaching.

" _Shit!_ Oh, hello there, Agent Carter," said Wells, affecting a casual air that sounded even guiltier than when he'd tried to distract Stark. "Nice day for a stroll, isn't it?"

"I was born at night, Sergeant Wells, not _last_ night." Agent Carter's voice said it would brook no bullshit today. Suddenly, Bucky was glad he wasn't out there, in Wells' place. "Now, what are you doing outside the women's barracks?"

Wells tried for genuine surprise, and failed badly. "This is the women's barracks? Well, of course it is. I knew that. In fact, I was waiting here for you."

"Ugh. Sergeant Wells, you really must give up these attempts to ingratiate yourself. I have no desire to spend time with you, nor any other soldier in this camp."

Bucky moved on to another footlocker. Six down, six to go. Why couldn't dames just keep their perfume bottles on their pillows or something? Outside, Wells continued to dig his own grave.

"No offence, Agent Carter, but that's awful egotistical of you. Why've you always gotta assume that when a guy's talking to you, he's sweet on you? I mean, don't get me wrong, you're a beautiful dame and all, but you're no Rita Hayworth."

"You have three seconds to explain why you're loitering around this tent, and then I'm going to either call the MPs, or shoot you in the foot. I may even do both, and not necessarily in that order," she said, and Bucky winced.

Wells opted for a tried and tested distraction method. "I wanted to ask for your advice."

"Advice?"

Bucky grinned to himself as he worked his way through footlocker number seven. There was no possible way Wells could worm his way out of this one. Sure, he could pretend to want Stark's advice about Carter, but what could he pretend to want Carter's advice about? They had nothing in common.

"Yeah. About… Sergeant Barnes. See, we fell out again," said Wells. "Actually, he's been spreading rumours about me. Bald-faced lies. He told the chaplain I'm afraid of vampires!"

 _Bastard!_

"Why would he do that? Vampires aren't even real."

"I know! But that's what he told the guy." Agent Carter must have had one of those expressions on her face that suggested she didn't believe a word he was saying, because Wells added, "Ask the chaplain, if you don't believe me! You know men of the cloth can't lie. Do you think maybe this is some sort of cry for attention? First-born son syndrome, maybe? I bet it's real hard being the first-born son, being the centre of attention until all those other siblings come along and steal that attention for themselves. I mean, why else would he go around telling lies like that?"

"Sergeant," Agent Carter sighed, as Bucky moved onto footlocker number eight and plotted all sorts of horrible revenge acts for his friend, "I stopped trying to understand the motives of men some time ago. About two weeks ago, actually. Right around the time your regiment was assigned to the SSR. Maybe you should just talk to Sergeant Barnes and ask him why he's spreading rumours."

"I can't do that!" Wells sound scandalised by the very idea. "You know what us guys are like. We can't talk about our feelings and stuff. That would just be wrong. I mean, what if he started opening up, or worse, crying? You know, sometimes, when I'm lying in bed at night, I think I can hear him sobbing to himself, real quiet."

Shoelaces. Bucky was gonna remove his friend's shoelaces from his boots, then he'd have to walk around with his boots flopping off his feet. And he was gonna switch a few of his sugar packets for salt, so that he'd be drinking salty coffee tomorrow morning. Maybe put some of that synthetic lemon powder in his canteen, too. And that was just for starters.

 _Nicely Spiced._

He read the name on the bottle, and the moment of elation pushed away all thoughts of revenge. Now, all he had to do was find a way out of the tent that didn't involved walking out the front door flap and being seen by Agent Carter.

"Could you maybe talk to him for me?" Wells continued. "You're a dame, so it's okay if he cries in front of you."

Thoughts of revenge swiftly returned.

"I'll see about it after dinner—"

"No! I mean, there are so many more rumours he could have spread by then! Can't you talk to him now?"

Bucky didn't have to be a mind-reader to know that Agent Carter was slowly making her way towards the tent flap. Wells' voice was becoming more and more tense by the minute, his bullshit more and more desperate. Trying to suppress panic, Bucky looked around, and finally saw a sliver of light coming in from a place behind one of the bunks, where the canvas wasn't pegged down quite as well as it should been. It would be a tight fit, but he had no other choice.

As Wells tried harder and harder to convince Agent Carter to go talk to Bucky, Bucky lowered himself onto the groundsheet and slid forward, prising the canvas up further still and crawling his way underneath it. When his shoulders got stuck, his heart began to sprint madly in his chest. Bad enough that Agent Carter caught him in the women's tent; worse if she caught him stuck between the tent and freedom.

With one desperate heave, he pushed with his knees, and felt the canvas finally let go. His legs scrabbled behind him, and as he reached the outside, he drank deeply of the sweet air of freedom. On tiptoes, and conscious that he probably wasn't as stealthy as he imagined himself to be, he crept around the side of the tent and gestured to Wells, who was staring at the front of the barracks as if expecting the sound of a gunshot at any moment. The look on his face was of palpable relief as he darted over to Bucky.

"Thank Go—ow!" Wells scowled, rubbing the arm that Bucky punched hard.

"Sobbing to myself?! She's gonna think I'm some kinda goddamn pansy!"

"Nonsense. Agent Carter is a very cosmopolitan dame, and I'm sure she'll find it endearing that a guy can let himself be vulnerable enough to cry in front of her."

"Wells, you just made that whole crying thing up!"

"She doesn't have to know that."

"Jeez. With friends like you, who needs enemies?" Bucky sighed. He held up the bottle of _Nicely Spiced_. "What does Davies even need this for?"

"I'm more interested in why he needs holy water," said Wells. A grin slid across his face. "Maybe he's baptising the chi—"

"Hey, you two!"

At the angry shout, Bucky surreptitiously slid the perfume bottle into his jacket pocket. Dugan stomped up to them, his moustache aquiver with anger, eyebrows drawn into a furious scowl.

"Where's my hat?" Dugan demanded. His head of tight auburn curls was bereft of its usual headgear, and he looked strangely different without it.

"Uh, why are you asking us?" Wells countered.

"Because wherever there's trouble in this camp, you two are not far behind. Now, gimme back my hat."

"Dugan, we don't have your hat," Bucky assured him.

"I can _see_ you don't have my hat _on you_ ," Dugan said, his scowl becoming even angrier. "I want you to go and fetch it from wherever you've put it. And if you're back with it in five minutes, I'll forget this ever happened. Otherwise…" He curled up his fist and punched it into the flat of his hand with a meaty _thwack_.

"Honestly, Dugan, we haven't touched, or even _seen_ , your hat," insisted Wells. "And if you need alibis for our whereabouts today, well, just go and ask Agent Carter, and Mr. Stark, and the chaplain. We have in fact had a very busy morning which has not involved your hat in any way, shape or form."

Their sincerity seemed to mollify Dugan… slightly. He gave a small grunt as he ran his eyes over them one last time, possibly to make sure they really weren't hiding his hat.

"Hmph. Well. If you see it…"

"We'll let you know," Bucky nodded.

And with that, Dugan stomped off to accuse someone else of hat theft. A small sigh of relief escaped Bucky's lips.

"What did Davies want Dugan's hat for, anyway?" he asked.

Wells gave an unconcerned shrug. "Dunno. But I'm real glad we sent Carrot to get it. C'mon, let's get all this stuff back to Davies. We still have a cake to bake."

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"Can I open my eyes now, Sarge?"

"No," said Bucky, as he led Gusty by the arm towards the 107th's barracks. It was just after dinner time, and since the brass might decide to up and move the camp with only a moment's notice, Bucky and his co-conspirators had decided to bake and give Gusty his cake that very same day, rather than save it until his birthday, the following day. Unlike the chickens, he did not think a cake would survive the march.

There was an expectant hush outside the tent, into which Bucky and Gusty stepped. A large portion of the 107th had turned out for this; some of them had even brought birthday presents. He suspected Gusty was going to be getting a _loooot_ of smokes, this year.

"Okay, now you can open your eyes," he told the corporal.

As Gusty's eyes opened, everybody gathered there cheered, "Happy birthday, Gusty!" Carrot struck up a chorus of _'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow'_ as he and Wells brought out the cake. This was the first time Bucky had seen it, and Carrot really had outdone himself. The cake was a huge, two-tiered pale brown sponge, with cream in the middle and a layer of chocolate icing on top. The tiny flames of ten candles—probably all Davies had been able to find—were dancing merrily atop the cake, and as the song's refrain ended on _'…and so say all of us!'_ , Carrot instructed him, "Make a wish and blow out the candles!"

Gusty closed his eyes, and blew. As soon as the last candle was out, everybody cheered again.

"I can't believe this!" the corporal said, his eyes glistening behind his glasses. "You guys did all of this for me?"

"Of course," said Bucky, clapping him on his shoulder. "You deserve it, pal. Now, let's get you some cake!"

Carrot was in charge of cutting the cake, because he was fair. He'd also made enough that everyone who wanted some cake could have a small piece each, and by the time it had been shared out—with Gusty getting the largest slice, because it _was_ his birthday, after all—there wasn't a single crumb of it left. Bucky thought it was better that way. It wasn't the _eating_ cake that mattered; it was the _sharing_ it.

"This is great," said Gusty, after a couple of mouthfuls. "How'd you know coffee cake was my favourite?"

"Because you told me, back on the _Monty_ ," said Carrot. "We were playing poker and talking about cake, and you said you liked coffee cake more than anything."

"Huh. Well, thank you."

"Shame you didn't make it a carrot cake," Franklin grinned. "Then it would have had symmetry with your name."

"My name's not actually 'Carrot'. It's Kenneth."

"Oh yeah. Right. I forgot."

Franklin's remark earned a round of chuckles, and then the birthday presents were brought forth. As Bucky had guessed, Gusty got a lot of packets of smokes. And, from Pfc. Davies, two hard-boiled eggs. Halfway through unwrapping his eighth packet of cigarettes, an expectant hush fell over the gathering as somebody new approached the tent. The white-clad nurse blushed when all eyes fell on her. Pleasantly plump with a girlish face, she wasn't Bucky's usual type, but pretty enough, especially with that blush colouring her cheeks. She cleared her throat as her fingers toyed subconsciously with her pinafore.

"I, ah, wonder if I could borrow Corporal Ferguson for a moment."

Gusty's face was a mask of shock, so Wells nudged him to his feet, and Bucky took the half-opened pack of smokes from his hands as he moved forward in a sort of dream-like trance. Only when the pair had disappeared out of earshot did the conversation resume.

"See?" said Wells to Bucky, wearing a self-satisfied smile. "Dames. He'll be cheered up in no time."


	29. The Drop

_Author_ _'s note: If you would like a visual aid to the sort of terrain most of this chapter takes place in, you can look for the drier/rockier images in a search of "Montfuron." That's not exactly where the chapter takes place, but it's kinda like that._

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _29\. The Drop_

When the dawn chorus woke Bucky in the early hours, he simply lay on his back in his camp bed, looking up at familiar khaki and listening to the morning's symphony. _The sun is shining and everything is right with the world!_ the birds seemed to sing. But they were just birds. They didn't know anything. They didn't know about the uneasy feeling that had been sitting right in the middle of Bucky's stomach for the past few days. A feeling that something, somewhere, was going terribly wrong. He just hoped it wasn't something back home. Hoped it wasn't Mom and Dad, or Steve.

"It means something," said Wells, quiet enough that he wouldn't wake the rest of the sleeping regiment. For once, he wasn't in one of his dead-to-the-world sleeps. In fact, he hadn't done much sleeping at all, over the past two days.

"I know."

"What do you think it means?"

"I don't know."

"I think we should go over all of the facts," Wells continued. "And this time, I'll write them down. Maybe we'll get some ideas. C'mon, help me brainstorm."

Bucky rolled over onto his stomach and looked over to the next bed, where Wells was lying with his flashlight in one hand and the sketched emblem from the Nazi flag in the other. To say the guy had been obsessing about it would have been putting it mildly. It was all Wells had thought about—or talked about—for the past two days. He seemed determined to solve the mystery, and the more determined he grew, the more convinced he became that there was some sort of conspiracy going on. He was definitely, absolutely, no doubt about it, crazy.

"That's half the problem," Bucky told his friend. "We don't really have that many facts. Just ideas, and feelings."

"I'm writing 'em down anyway. Let's start with what the SSR is doing here. So far, the missions we've run have been pretty combat-heavy. So why would a scientific division be sent here? Also, all that stuff about field-testing Stark's designs is sheer baloney."

Bucky had to admit, his friend had a point. It made no sense whatsoever for Stark to be here.

"What about the intel the colonel has been gathering?" he offered. Wells grabbed a pen and a spare piece of paper, and began scribbling. "He knew exactly what kinda defences that first bunker had, and how many men were stationed there. At first, I thought he'd just got good aerial imagery, but that MG position was covered; aerial surveillance wouldn't have picked it up. The colonel must have eyes on the ground."

"French Resistance, I bet," said Wells. "Didn't Stark say we're in Maquis territory?"

"Yeah. And when Davies was telling us about those chickens, he said the 9th had made contact with the local Resistance."

Across the other side of the tent, one of the soldiers mumbled in his sleep. When he realised it was Gusty, a small smile tugged at Bucky's lips. Cake had _definitely_ cheered him up. Or, more likely, Nurse Klein had cheered him up. Bucky had seen them a few times, walking through camp together, talking in their own little bubble of privacy, and, on one occasion, holding hands. The smiles on their faces had been cautious, shy, genuine… seeing them enjoying each others' company brought smiles to Bucky's face, too.

It also brought an ache to his chest. His last date with a dame had been only a few short weeks ago, and he could remember it well. The Expo. The music hall. The dancing. It had been fun. They'd both enjoyed themselves. Connie had been a great girl, beautiful, with sparkling brown eyes and an infectious smile. She'd laughed at his jokes and matched every step he danced perfectly. But he'd never had _that moment_. He'd never looked into her eyes and been blown away. Never felt his heart beat erratically in his chest in her presence—unless you counted the way in which it beat fast from the exertion of dancing. There had been something missing, and he still hadn't been able to figure out what. But looking at Gusty and Nurse Klein together, he was starting to get an inkling of it. There was a special sort of magic that surrounded them, or passed between them, when they looked into each others' eyes and smiled at each other. Something more than plain old physical attraction. Something that he'd never had, but now, he wanted.

He blinked, nearly jumped right out of bed, when a pair of fingers were snapped in front of his face, startling him out of his reverie.

"C'mon pal, don't do that introspective gaze thing. I need your focus here," said Wells, tapping the picture of the gruesome emblem.

"I was just thinking about Gusty and Nurse Klein. It's nice to see him happy, isn't it?"

"C'est fantastique," said Wells, rolling his eyes.

"No need to be so jaded."

"I'm not jaded. I'm happy for the guy. I'm glad something finally brought his stare a little closer than the thousand yards. But I also have more important concerns than Gusty's happiness." He tapped the image again. "I think it's an alien. Like the ones from _War of the Worlds_ , or something. I think Nazis are leading an alien invasion of Earth."

"You know you're _actually_ insane, right?" Bucky told him. "As in, if I took you to a psychologist and asked them to assess you, you would be deemed clinically insane. Aliens are no more real than vampires!"

Wells eyed the picture thoughtfully. "Vampire aliens. It would explain the myths…"

"Let's… just get back to the facts," he sighed. "That guy Gusty shot… when he died, he said 'Hail Hydra'. Not _Hitler._ "

"I know that word. I've heard it before. Somewhere."

"Could you perhaps narrow it down a little more than 'somewhere'?"

Wells gave him a rueful smile. "Sorry, no. But maybe—"

The tent flat opened and morning sunlight streamed in. Wells quickly slipped the picture underneath his blanket, and switched off his flashlight. Bucky squinted at the figure outlined in the doorway, but he didn't have long to wonder about who was standing there.

"Umm, Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Wells?"

"Lieutenant Nestor?"

"Yes. I'm glad to see you're… err… awake. I, umm, need you to assemble fifteen men and meet me at the command tent in, um, ten minutes. We have a… ah… a mission."

"Yes, sir," Bucky said, and the twitchy lieutenant left.

"Guess we'll have to put our investigations on hold," said Wells. "I wonder what the brass want us to do now?"

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"Last night," Colonel Hawkswell explained without preamble fifteen minutes later, "a flight of U.S. planes dropped a cargo of provisions for us. As you know, the nature of our mission leaves us with no supply chain, and it was always the plan to resupply us via air drops. In order to preserve the secrecy of our location, it was arranged for the first drop to be made several miles away from our camp." The colonel stuck a tack down onto the map, in a position several miles away from their camp's indicated location. "This was to be the designated drop point. However, due to what I expect are thoroughly fascinating _factors_ , the pilots missed their drop zone, and instead deposited our cargo here." Another tack was added, this one considerably further away. Almost a day's march behind them, in fact.

"Your mission," he said, "is to get to the drop point and salvage as much as possible from the cargo. Food, medical supplies and ammunition are the highest priority. Take six jeeps, and bring back as much as you can. We're scheduled to move again tomorrow night, so I want you back by tomorrow afternoon. And just in case the Nazis saw that drop, go heavily armed."

The men offered salutes, then filed out. They didn't need to be told what to do; they were already heading back to the barracks for their backpacks, weapons and everything else they'd need. And in his head, Bucky was already dividing them into teams of three, figuring out where everybody fit in.

"Sir, would you like me to take point in the lead vehicle?" he asked Nestor.

"Um, yes, if you like. Whatever you think is best, Sergeant. I'll leave the, err, finer details, to you and Sergeant Wells. I'm sure this will be a, err, walk in the park, after those, umm, communications bunkers."

"I hope so, sir," he agreed.

They left Nestor to his twitching and followed the men back to the barracks. The mission seemed straight-forward enough. Simple, in fact. Definitely less challenging—and less dangerous—than their previous missions. It seemed a little unfair, though, that the 107th were called upon yet again to go trekking through the countryside. The brass seemed to prefer keeping the 69th close to home, for patrols, whilst sending the 107th further afield. Camp was probably a lot quieter, when Bucky and his friends were out on a mission. _Hmm_. Maybe that was why the colonels sent them in the first place…

"I'll take point," he said to the team, as they scrambled to prepare. "Gusty, you'll drive. Hawkins, you're with me, too. Tex, I want you in the back of the convoy with your own SSR-01. Davies, Biggs, you're with him. Wells, you take one of the centre vehicles with Lieutenant Nestor. Let's try to keep him out of the way."

"Ugh. Baby sitting duty? Really, Barnes?"

"Carrot, you will help Wells with baby sitting duty," Bucky added.

"Yes Sarge!" Carrot saluted.

"The rest of you, arrange yourselves three to a jeep and let's keep a minimum distance of fifteen metres between each vehicle, in case of mines."

They wouldn't need to be told twice. After Tipper, everybody had become more aware of the danger of mines. Each night, they tied Biggs down extra tight to his bed, just in case he sleep-walked. They all knew they could die on any mission, but none of them wanted to be the next guy whose tags were the only part of him left to be brought back.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The morning sunlight was a fleeting visitor which, as time marched towards midday, gave way to pale grey clouds. For once, Bucky was glad for the clouds. They were too light to threaten rain, and they kept the scorching sun's rays from burning his face all over again. The area through which they drove was both hilly and rocky; jeepable, but only just. It was slow going, and he kept a vigilant watch on the hills around him as Gusty tried to pick the least difficult path to traverse.

During their first week or so in southern France, Bucky had been confused and perplexed by the lack of German patrols. Now, he knew that the patrols rarely came this far into the 'wilderness.' Since Germany's advance south, following the figurative erasure of the Demarcation line which separated German-controlled northern France from the 'Free' Vichy-governed south, the Nazis had learnt which areas to avoid on foot. They might have rolled in with tanks by now, if it wasn't for the difficult terrain. Maybe that was why this area had such a strong Resistance presence.

 _Allegedly_.

So far, Bucky hadn't seen even _one_ Resistance fighter.

"I don't like it out here, Sarge," said Hawkins. He was on the back seat with Bucky, watching the other side of the jeep, his M1 ready to open fire at a moment's notice. "It's too quiet. It's like the whole of the south of France is just one big empty series of hills, and rocks, and trees."

"That's because the colonel has purposely avoided taking us anywhere near civilisation, Private. The towns are out there; trust me. The place where we took Matilda was nice and… well, relatively civilised, I guess." He smiled as the memory of a city skyline came to mind. "Not a patch on New York, of course, but nowhere's like New York. Maybe you're just feeling ill at ease because you're used to the big city. I don't much like the empty, rolling hills here, either."

In fact, other than Tex and Hernandez, the whole damn bunch of them were city-boys through and through. Bucky had seen horses before, and sheep and cows and the like, but only in fields, whilst being driven to his cousin's house for summer vacation. He guessed a guy who never left the big city could spend his whole life not seeing a horse or a sheep or a cow.

Or a chicken.

After another hour of driving, Gusty was forced to leave the road he'd been following; it led away from the direction they needed to travel. He put the jeep on an invisible track which took them up, into the hills, to a view of the craggy, tree-covered mountains that Bucky couldn't help but smile about. Apart from the occasional summer downpour, the south of France was turning out pretty nice.

He peeped down the scope of his rifle at the line of jeeps that had begun to climb behind him. In the vehicle behind, Hodge had the wheel, while Franklin and Corporal Jones kept watch from the back. A perplexed frown was written across Hodge's face, but that wasn't unusual; he was usually perplexed about _something_. In the third jeep were three of Weiss' men who'd been on missions with Bucky before; Hall, Hartley and a guy named Tucker. Good men who'd proven their levelheadedness in combat. Jeep number four had Nestor driving, with Carrot and Wells in the back. Both men were silent, their attention focused on the terrain around them. In the fifth jeep was Corporal Scott at the wheel, and in back, Mex and another man who was known to Bucky by name, but had never been on a mission with him before. Finally, covering their six, was Biggs at the wheel, and Davies and Tex in the back. Bucky was pleased when he saw Tex check behind the convoy with his SSR-01. It was good to know the private was aware that ambushes could happen from any direction; even behind.

Half an hour later, the view had grown old and the path more difficult. At some point in the distant past, half of the hill on which they drove had fallen—or been carved—away, leaving a sharp knife-edge ridge behind. Peering over the left side of the jeep, to the ridge edge just a few feet away, he saw a dizzying sheer drop which reminded him a little too much of Coney Island's Cylone roller coaster… and that terrifying, stormy night on the _Monty_.

The voice of reason in Bucky's head wanted him to speak out and warn Gusty about getting too close to the edge. But Gusty wasn't an idiot, and he wasn't blind. At least, he wasn't blind when he was wearing his glasses, which he was right now. The jeep was already listing to the right, with the natural incline of the hill; if Gusty drove any further from the edge, the jeep would probably roll over.

A loud screeching noise came screaming from behind, accompanied by panicked yells, by mechanical grinding, and a frightened scream cut off so abruptly that it made every hair on Bucky's body stand on end. As soon as he'd heard the first yell, he'd brought his SSR-01 up into firing position, and now he looked downhill at the tree line, trying to spot whoever was shooting at them. When Gusty slammed on the brakes, he wedged his foot beneath the back seat, to prevent himself being flung forward.

 _Dammit, where were they?!_

"Can either of you see where we're being attacked from?"

"Sarge!" The terror in Franklin's call turned his blood to ice once more. "Sarge, we lost a jeep!"

Bucky put all thoughts of hostiles aside as he lowered his rifle and looked back to the commotion that had happened in the convoy. Where one of the jeeps should have been, there was only a gap, and a set of tire treads leading over the knife-edge. Even as Bucky jumped down to the ground, he heard more of the mechanical grinding, and finally realised what it was; jeep number four, rolling and crashing down the drop.

 _Carrot! Wells!_ They'd been in that jeep. They couldn't be gone. They _couldn_ _'t._ Carrot had Samantha waiting back home for him! And Wells… just that morning, Bucky had told his friend that he was basically certifiable. What kind of last words were they to say to a friend?

Most of the team had abandoned their vehicles to crowd a little closer to the edge. A plume of smoke rose from below, visible above the heads of men who looked simultaneously panicked and lost. If this was it, if they'd lost the jeep, Bucky had to get them away ASAP. Letting them stay, letting them watch and wonder who might be next, would do nothing for morale. But before he left, he had to be sure. He had to see every member of jeep four for himself. He couldn't leave without seeing.

"Move!" he barked, as he pushed his way through the crowd. "Get back; the edge might not be safe."

" _Definitely not safe!"_ called a familiar voice from below.

Sickening relief flooded through Bucky's body, making him light-headed all over again. Not daring to step too close to the edge, he lay down on his stomach and inched forward, to peer directly below the rocky rim. Some fifteen feet down, he saw Wells clinging on to a narrow ledge. And clinging on to Wells' legs, was Carrot. Of Lieutenant Nestor, there was no sign.

"Get rope, now!" Bucky commanded, and half a dozen men scrambled for the coils of rope which lived as standard in the backs of the jeeps. Whilst they did that, he peered down again. Wells was hanging on by the skin of his fingers, and his face carried a sheen of sweat. "How are you doing down there?"

"Oh, great," Wells said. "We could do this all day. And by 'all day' I mean 'for about another fifteen seconds.' Right, Carrot?"

"I don't think I can hold on much longer, Sarge!" Carrot cried. His eyes were closed, and he had both arms wrapped around Wells' legs. Bucky's carefully laid rescue plan, which involved both stricken men keeping their heads, quickly went to pieces.

"Sarge, I got your rope!" said Hernandez, appearing with a loose coil.

"Good. Tie it around my belt, and tie it tight. Gusty! Tie the other end to the tow ring of one of the jeeps, and pick up the slack. Wells, if I throw you a rope, do you think you can grab hold of it?"

"Not a chance. Carrot's too heavy. Trust me to get lumped with the only guy in the whole army who doesn't lose any weight after three weeks of forced marches," Wells growled. "What the hell have you been doing, Carrot, pilfering food from Davies' chickens?"

"Carrot, could you grab a rope?"

"I think I'm gonna fall, Sarge!" Carrot wailed.

 _Shit._ There was no chance of Carrot doing anything if he was panicked.

"Gusty!" he shouted, as Mex finished tying the rope so tight around the back of his belt that Bucky suspected he was never gonna get it off, "pick up the damn slack! I need to get down there. I need two more ropes, fastened to different jeeps."

"I can't hold on any longer!" Carrot yelled.

"Carrot, since we're about to die," Wells said, as Bucky felt Gusty take up the slack on the rope, "I just wanted to apologise to you. Y'see, every night, when you fall asleep, I borrow your picture of Samantha from your pocket."

"What?!"

"That's right. Sometimes I borrow her two or three times a night. I like the way she smiles at me."

"I'm gonna kill you, you bastard!" Carrot yelled.

"Uh-huh, sure—ow, that's actually my leg you're squeezing."

 _That_ _'s it,_ Bucky thought, as he lay the ends of the other two ropes over his shoulders and lowered himself down over the edge of the drop, _keep him angry enough that he doesn_ _'t think about letting go._

He tried not to look down. Tried not to see the dizzying, Cyclone-like drop. Tried not to think about the jeep flaming on the stony ground far below, and the column of smoke that would be like a beacon for local Resistance and Nazi troops alike. He tried to focus on Carrot and Wells… but the drop was the pink elephant in an otherwise empty room, and he couldn't help but look. When the world spun, he immediately regretted it.

Ten seconds had passed, but it felt like ten years. Beads of perspiration slid down his face, dripping off into the nothingness below. He finally reached Wells, and called, "Just another couple of feet, Gusty!" The order was relayed back, and as soon as he came to a dangling stop beside Carrot, he worked as fast as he could to fasten one of the ropes around the young man's belt.

"Alright Carrot, you're safe. You've gotta let go of Wells," he said.

"I can't, Sarge, I'll fall!"

"You won't. You've got a rope around you. You're not going anywhere. You trust me, don't you?" Carrot nodded fervently. "Then let go. I can't get a rope around Wells while you're clinging to him. Just let go, the guys have got your slack, and they'll pull you up nice and slow. I'll see you back up top, and we'll all have a rest after this. Okay?"

For a wonder, Carrot obeyed. When he let go, he swung a little out to the side, then started to be lifted up. He kept his eyes closed the whole way, but that didn't stop the tears from streaming down his cheeks.

"Pull me up by a couple of feet, Gusty!" Bucky called. By now, he could smell the burning rubber of the jeep tires. And worse… he could smell burning meat. The combination made his stomach want to heave all of its contents, but he forced the feeling away. Forced the nausea back down. He'd only done half his job.

Two years later, he was back at Wells' level, and the first thing he saw was his friend's arms trembling with the exertion of holding on for so long.

"Now that the Germans have had a chance to shoot at you," he said, "you're not thinking of jumping, are you?"

"Barnes, seriously, not the best time to try and make me laugh. Besides, inappropriate humour is my thing. You can't go stealing my thing, not while I'm still around to use it. Get your own thing."

"I already have my own thing; my compulsive need to fix things, remember?" He picked up the second rope, and reached out to thread it through Wells' belt. "Right now, I'm trying to fix this little problem you seem to be having with gravity."

"Well, hurry it up, I think—oh shi—"

Bucky didn't need the verbal warning. He'd already noticed Wells' sweat-slicked fingers slipping from the ledge. He quickly abandoned the rope idea, and wrapped his arms around his friend's chest, holding on so tight that he feared he might crush ribs. Instinct, more than knowledge, prompted him to wrap his legs around his friend's lower body in a firm scissor lock.

"Pull us up!" Bucky yelled. "Wells, can you reach the rope over my shoulder?"

Wells didn't even bother glancing up. "No. Even if I could, I don't think I could hold on to it. My arms feels like they've been wrenched out of their sockets."

"Alright." Didn't matter. In another eight or ten years, they'd be pulled back up. "Then, you just do what you do best; sit there and look pretty."

There was a very small movement, before Wells asked over his shoulder, "Can you see this hand gesture I'm making at you?"

"No."

"Damn. What a waste."

Exactly seven years later they reached the lip of the knife-edge, and there was no shortage of hands to help pull them over the top. The last time Bucky had felt so groped was during his final medical check, back at Camp Shanks. It was an experience he'd hoped he'd never have to repeat.

As the two of them were dragged to safety, Gusty assured Bucky that he could let go, and he finally released Wells from the crushing scissor-hold. Wells rolled to freedom, but merely lay panting, exhausted on his back. Bucky sympathised. He knew he oughta get up and start doing command-related things… but right now, he liked the feel of the ground against his back too much. The lovely, wonderful, solid ground. Not far away, Carrot was slowly composing himself. His sniffles had subsided, giving way to quiet hiccoughs.

"Anybody want morphine?" Hernandez asked, as he tottered over with a first aid kit.

Bucky shook his head.

"I want water," Wells croaked, and fourteen canteens were thrust towards him. "Wait, did I say water? I mean, I want moonshine. Lots and lots of moonshine."

"Has anyone seen any sign of Lieutenant Nestor?" Bucky asked. All heads were shaken, except one.

"Ah have," said Tex. He held up his SSR-01. "But if y'wanna see, you're gonna need this. Smoke's kinda thick down there."

"It's okay. That you've seen him is enough." He didn't need to see for himself. He'd been to enough barbecues to be familiar with the smell of burning flesh.

Finally, he pushed himself to his feet, managed to unfasten the complex knot of rope around his belt, and somewhat shakily made his way back towards the ridge. Just to be safe, he stayed a few feet back as he looked down at the flaming wreckage. Rightfully, he ought to get lowered down there and retrieve the lieutenant's tags. They couldn't take his body back, because it would be too badly charred by the time the flames were finished with it, but he could at least bring back the tags.

It would be a delay. Who knew how many people had seen that column of black smoke by now? Besides, they still had a mission to complete. Somewhere, out there, were desperately needed supplies. Everyone would be tightening their belts again soon, if Bucky didn't get the supplies back.

"Brass are gonna think we have it in for our officers," said Wells. He'd managed to make his feet, and was standing a little behind Bucky, watching the smoke rise. Though he looked like he'd recovered faster than Carrot, Bucky didn't like the way he held his arms, as if it pained him to have them in a normal by-the-sides position. Wells and Carrot, he decided, were going to be on light-duties only, until they got back to camp for a checkup. They'd both lost their rifles in the accident anyway. "First Dancing, now Nestor. Maybe we're cursed."

"It could'a been worse," Bucky said. "Just like with Tipper, we could have lost three men, instead of one." A knife of guilt stabbed Bucky in the gut when he recalled how long it had taken him to be concerned about Nestor's welfare right after seeing the jeep gone.

He turned and addressed the troops. "We need to get moving. This fire's a beacon for anyone looking this way. Carrot, you sit in the jeep with Hodge, Franklin and Jones. Wells, in back with Tex, Biggs and Davies. We've still got a lot of ground to cover, and we're down one vehicle. That means we can't take as much back. So, if you can think of anything that's better off left behind, make note of it. When we find our supplies, we're going to need to do a fast inventory to decide what we can take with us. Now, let's move out. We're not stopping until we find that cargo."


	30. Resting Place

We Were Soldiers

 _30\. Resting Place_

They found the cargo in the bottom of a deep valley, where it had finally come to a sliding halt. Five crates in total, and one of them had split, spilling its contents across the hillside. At first, Bucky almost missed them; his eyes slid over the lumpy, olive drab parachute that was draped over one of the crates, and it was only when Tex called out for a stop that he realised the Texan's sharp eyes had picked up something incongruous.

The pilots who'd made the drop may have missed their zone by some considerable distance, but at least they'd managed to drop the crates in the same area. Two were immediately visible from the road, two more were less than a hundred metres downhill, and the last was balanced precariously over the gully of a narrow stream.

Bucky hopped out of his jeep and pulled off his helmet, wiping the sweat from his forehead before donning it again. His limbs had gone numb from holding himself tensed against the jolting in the back of the vehicle, and movement was a welcome relief.

"Wells, Carrot, stay in the jeeps and keep watch. We don't want anyone crashing the party before we're finished. Everyone else, unpack the crates. Go through everything. Take food, medical supplies and ammo. Start a 'might be nice' pile for anything you think we might squeeze onto the jeeps if we've any room left over. The rest, dump in another pile. Anything we don't take, we'll burn. No point the Nazis getting their hands on it."

He and Tex gave Carrot and Wells their SSR rifles, and joined the rest of the team at the crates. It was heavy work in the blistering heat. Crates of tinned goods had been tightly packed together, and they quickly found out that loading a jeep without care for where the crates were placed put too much stress on the vehicles' suspension. After the second of the jeeps starting listing dangerously to one side, Bucky set Franklin and Davies to be in charge of distributing the loads more evenly.

"Hey, Sarge," called Hodge. He jumped down from the side of the crate he was pillaging and held up a bottle of amber liquid. When he got closer, Bucky realised it was Scotch. He didn't know anything about Scotch, so had no idea whether it was a decent vintage, but since it was probably intended for the colonels, chances were it wasn't cheap swill. "Are we classing this as 'essential foodstuff,' 'might be nice,' or 'everything else'?"

"That, Private Hodge, is most definitely 'essential,'" Bucky said. Spoils of war. And if the brass asked any questions, the bottle had simply been smashed during the drop.

They managed to get all of the medical supplies, most of the ammunition, and a surprisingly large amount of the food into the jeeps. Every inch of available storage space was used up, and once the men got back into the vehicles, more boxes were loaded onto their laps. Their legs went in at odd angles, because the foot-wells were full of sealed tins. Finally, when the sun was halfway to the horizon, Bucky deemed their work done. He and Tex wrapped everything that was left into one of the used parachutes, doused it with a little gasoline taken from one of the emergency jerry cans they carried aboard the jeeps, and torched it.

It was well into dusk by the time Bucky halted the laden convoy. He'd found a clear, sparkling stream, shaded by a wide stand of tall evergreens, and it looked too nice an area to pass by. After checking the area for signs of life, and finding none, they made camp for the night.

Bucky made only a half-hearted attempt to keep order and discipline; a sort of holiday spirit had entered most of the men, and he was loathe to quash it. For the first time in three weeks, they had a night away from the bulk of the company. A night away from the disapproving eyes of the officers and the restrictions of camp life.

The first thing they did was get a fire going. Then, before anything else, they bathed. The water of the stream was cold, but pleasantly so. It didn't take long for the splashing to start, but the men settled down when Bucky brought out some of the soap he'd salvaged from a supply crate. Soap, like smokes and chocolate, was in high demand. Until now, Bucky hadn't even realised how much he appreciated the simple pleasure of being clean. He scrubbed himself from head to toe until his skin was pink as a newborn baby, and then he scrubbed himself a little more just to be sure. They had no towels, but after weeks of living with hundreds of other men in quarters so close that they were practically on each others' laps, Bucky had re-evaluated his interpretation of the word 'modesty.' Sitting out to air-dry, doing nothing but letting the occasionally cloud-hidden sun dry his bare skin, was actually quite pleasant—until the biting, early evening insects sent them all scrambling for their clothes.

When the men turned to their ration kits, Bucky told them to open up one of the food crates from the supply drop instead. They dined on spam and tinned vegetables, which they warmed up over the fire. After that, they found a tin of cake wrapped in waxed paper, and heated a couple of tins of custard to have with it. For the first time since he'd left Camp Shanks, Bucky ate dinner and did not feel hungry immediately after. In fact, he felt like a bloated pig.

With the important business of bathing and eating safely out of the way, the men shook out their groundsheets and sleeping rolled and settled down to play cards, or throw die, or read pocket novels. Bucky brought out the bottle of Scotch they'd redistributed from the supply drop, and tiredly dropped onto his sleeping roll beside Wells.

"How're your arms?" he asked, as he broke the seal on the bottle.

"Better." Wells was lying on his back, a coin in his hands which he flipped over his knuckles, like Tipper used to do. He wasn't as good at it as Tipper, though, and the coin kept dropping from his grasp. "I'll be fine, by tomorrow."

Bucky nodded. Nobody wanted to admit to being hurt, because that meant a visit to the hospital tent, which invariably ended with a blood donation.

Laughter fell on his ears and he saw Tex, Hodge, Jones and Franklin gambling over dice not far away. A poker game had sprung up, governed by Davies. Carrot and Gusty were reading quietly, whilst Mex was entertaining a couple of men with impressions of the camp's officers; he did a very convincing Colonel Phillips.

A feeling of something warm bubbled up inside Bucky's chest. It might have been contentedness, or perhaps pride. It was a similar feeling to the one he'd felt at Last Stop, that night when Carrot had been overjoyed to get a note from Samantha, following the rose incident. They'd been through a lot since then, and they hadn't all come away unscathed, but together, they'd made it this far. If they stuck together, there was nothing they couldn't do.

 _Except save each other from death._

The elated feeling quickly sank. When he'd imagined war, he'd thought that he'd always see death approaching. That he'd have time to react to it, or at least prepare for it. He'd thought there would always be a way to defend against it. But Danzig had been taken so swiftly that there was no saving him. Tipper been there one moment, and gone the next. Today, one tiny misstep had caused them to lose another man, and it was only through an act of sheer luck or divine providence that they hadn't lost more.

Guilt added its weight to his shoulders. He knew he ought to be as sad about Nestor's death as he was about any other. But his first thought, on reflecting over the events of the day, had been, _Thank God it wasn_ _'t Carrot or Wells._

"Somethin' on your mind?" Wells asked, his blue eyes far too attentive. Bucky shifted a little on his bedroll before answering.

"I was just thinking about Lieutenant Nestor," he admitted. "When I saw that jeep missing, my first worry was for you and Carrot. It's like my brain didn't even give Nestor a second thought. Does that make me a terrible person?"

"No. It makes you a good friend. And you can trust me on that, because I know all about friendship. Practically an expert. You said so yourself, remember?"

"Are you going to hold that over my head forever?"

"Yes. Yes I am. Forever and ever." Wells smiled and threw the coin at him; it hit him on his forehead, then bounced and rolled away. "Now, are you gonna stop wet-nursing that bottle of Scotch, or do I have to teach you how to drink liquor?"

He chuckled. "In your dreams, pal."

The fumes from the Scotch made his eyes water as he brought the bottle to his lips. The swig of liquid burned his throat, and then set fire to his stomach. But he managed not to cough, or splutter, as he passed the bottle on.

The promise of real alcohol put a halt to the games, though Mex kept up his impressions as the bottle was passed around. His Agent Carter was even more impressive than his Colonel Phillips.

"Drink up, Corporal," said Hodge, passing the bottle to Carrot.

Carrot's eyes narrowed in his pale face. Bucky suspected the guy was still a little in shock from his near-death experience.

"My mom says alcohol is the Devil's water, Private, and awful sinful."

"Carrot, after the day you've had, God won't mind how much you sin," Wells told him. "What's the point in being afraid of death if you've never really lived?"

It was a measure of how shaken up Carrot was that he let himself be talked so easily into taking a quick swig of the whisky. He coughed. He spluttered. He took another sip which went down a little easier, then spent a moment staring at the bottle.

"Remember when Tipper necked half his beer in one aboard the _Monty?_ " he asked. "I think he was afraid someone was gonna take it off him if he didn't drink it fast."

"I still don't know how he managed to do this coin thing," said Wells. He tried to demonstrate the trick with a new coin, flipping it over his knuckles… but it dropped again. "Guy must'a had really small fingers."

Bucky took a deep breath. Seven days ago, Tipper had died. Now, his death was finally real. It wasn't just an absence of a person… it was a memory of who he had been. A memory that those who had known him finally felt able to discuss. Enough time had passed that the anger, and grief, and loss, had stopped being so raw that it hurt to think of the kid who was no more.

"I'll never forget that day on the _Monty_ when he asked someone to go shower with him." A smiled tugged at one corner of his lips as the memory of Tipper interrupting the poker game played out across his mind.

Those who'd not known Tipper so well offered their own memories; the times they'd seen him bouncing excitedly around the camp, the way he begged everybody to let him take on a little more responsibility.

Finally, Gusty said, "I wish he'd told us an ending for that story he'd started writing. Now we'll never know how it ended."

"Maybe we can end it for him," Bucky suggested. "Let's see…"

"The guy woke up, and his nightmare was just a dream," said Wells. "Everyone was still alive, and they all lived happily ever after."

The ending received a toast. They toasted so much that they ran out of Scotch. Bucky tossed the empty bottle into the fire and watched the flames try to claim it. Every drop of alcohol burned hot for a brief moment, and then the fire settled back down. He knew how it felt; he wanted to nestle down into his bedroll and sleep until dawn. But first, he had one last duty to fulfil.

"We need to keep watch. Two-man sentries, an hour per pair. Jones, Hodge, you take the first shift. Uh… maybe don't bother trying to wake Carrot."

Unused to the effects of alcohol, Carrot had already been asleep and snoring for twenty minutes. Bucky hoped the guy wouldn't wake up with a hangover. He was never gonna convince the brass their Scotch had been destroyed in the drop if his team returned hungover.

With his final duty complete, he slid between the two layers of blankets and used his arms as a pillow beneath his head. The rocky ground wasn't particularly comfortable to sleep on, but it was nice to lie beneath the sky, to see the stars twinkling behind the spindly pine branches above. It was even nicer to hear the crackling of the fire, and smell the burning wood. It reminded him of the old wood burning stove, in the living room back home.

He let his thoughts drift back there. Because of the time difference, the folks back home were probably just finishing work. Maybe sitting down to dinner, discussing their respective days. The traffic, the office gossip, the way the price of bread had been hiked once again. But none of those days would have involved losing another man. None of them would have involved a guy going over a cliff, taking an army jeep with him.

Could Bucky ever go back to that? After having days where men died—where friends died—would he ever be able to go back to caring about the traffic, or the price of bread? Could he go back to being the guy who tried to sneak in the back door of the cinema with Steve, to dodge the ticket fee? Or was this his life, now? Was the army all he would have, because going back would be too difficult?

He looked around the impromptu camp, at Carrot who was out cold, Gusty who was nose-deep in a book, Wells who was still trying to flip a coin over his knuckles without dropping it, and the rest of the men he'd come to know as friends and respect as comrades. At least if this was to be his life, he was in good company.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

It was early afternoon by the time the convoy reached the main camp. Bucky had picked a different route back, to avoid the unstable knife-edge ridge… and so that the men didn't have to see what was left of the wreckage. As the jeeps pulled up by the mess tent, there was no shortage of hands to help them unpack the contents. Bucky instructed the corporals to oversee the unpacking process, then set off to the command tent with Wells in tow.

"If you want to get out of this, you could probably do with having a doc check you over," he offered.

"Thanks, but I'd rather face the colonel's wrath than get groped in the medical tent." He rolled his shoulders and did his best not to wince. "Besides, my arms feel much better, now."

Bucky snorted, but allowed his friend the lie.

"Doubt we'll get a commendation this time," Wells added.

"I don't even deserve the last one." Bucky held up his hands to stall the objection he saw rising in his friend's eyes. "I know, I know, I should quit my griping and accept it. And I do accept it, no matter how undeserved."

"I like that I don't even need to have my half of the conversation anymore."

When they reached the command tent, they found both colonels, Agent Carter and Howard Stark discussing the location of the next campsite. As soon as they were admitted, Bucky and Wells saluted. How the hell was he gonna explain how another lieutenant had died?

"Report, Sergeants," Hawkswell barked.

"Sir, we found the cargo and recovered all medical and ammunition supplies, plus over seventy-five percent of the foodstuff," said Bucky. He rushed on before Hawkswell could ask why Nestor wasn't reporting this. "But… there was an accident, en route. The jeep carrying Lieutenant Nestor, Sergeant Wells and Corporal Robbins hit loose ground, and went over the side of a cliff. We managed to save Sergeant Wells and Corporal Robbins, but we lost Lieutenant Nestor. And the jeep, sir."

"I'm sure Lieutenant Nestor's family will be grieved to hear of his loss," said Hawkswell. "I'll add the condolence letter to the others, ready for sending at the first opportunity. Do you have anything to add, Sergeant Wells?"

"Only that if it wasn't for quick thinking on behalf of Sergeant Barnes and the rest of the men, Corporal Robbins and I wouldn't be here."

"Noted. What about the rest of the supplies?"

"We torched them, sir," Bucky said. "Didn't want the Nazis getting their hands on them."

"Very well. We'll be moving camp in three hours, Sergeants. Tell your men to get something to eat before we march. Dismissed."

Bucky's knees almost collapsed in relief. He'd been expecting a chewing-out over the lost jeep, and an even bigger one over Lt. Nestor. Did this mean the jeep and the lieutenant were counted as acceptable losses, or was the colonel's need to move the camp ASAP greater than the need to lecture his sergeants about losing equipment and men?

"Err, if I could temporarily rescind that dismissal, for just a moment," Stark said, making a somewhat furtive approach. "I don't suppose you found a bottle of Scotch amongst the supplies, did you?"

"There was a bottle," Bucky said, opting to sandwich a lie between two truths, "but it was smashed in the drop. At least the Nazis didn't get it."

"Damn. That was a two-hundred dollar bottle of Balvenie. I knew I should have instructed them to wrap it more securely."

"It was a glass bottle dropped from a plane," Wells pointed out. "Very likely, no amount of wrapping would have saved it."

Something thoughtful and fleeting passed across Stark's eyes. From his pocket, he pulled out a pad and pencil, and scribbled something down. Reading it upside down, Bucky thought it said, _'Invent gravity-proof wrapping.'_

Bucky took the opportunity to make a hasty escape, and as he left the tent, he felt momentarily light-headed.

"We drank a two-hundred dollar bottle of Scotch!" he hissed.

"We _wasted_ a two-hundred dollar bottle of Scotch," Wells groaned. "I thought that stuff was too smooth. And it got drunk by a bunch of guys who wouldn't know how to appreciate decent whisky if it fell out of the sky and hit them on the head!"

Wells had a point. But then, the Scotch had been something to share. It had opened the door to sharing other things, such as their memories of Tipper, and their sadness over his death. For a night, they had managed to keep Tipper's memory, and therefore his spirit, alive. It may have cost a two-hundred dollar bottle of Scotch, but as far as Bucky was concerned, it would have been cheap at twice the price.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Hey Carrot, wait up!"

Bucky trotted after the young man and caught up to him just out of sight of the regimental tent. The camp had moved twenty klicks overnight, and most of the 107th were still abed, exhausted from the walk. Bucky had been woken by the sound of Carrot's push-up count, but he didn't mind. In fact, he'd been counting on it.

"What's up, Sarge?"

"Are you heading to the morning service?" Carrot nodded. He never missed a service when he wasn't on a mission. "Great. I'll walk there with you, if you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind. I'm sure Lieutenant Olliver will be glad to see you, Sarge. He was asking after you, a few days ago."

"Oh." The priest was probably worried about Bucky's state of mind after that whole holy-water incident. He'd been avoiding the lieutenant, since then. Hard to keep a straight face around a guy when he'd blessed your canteen.

"Are you gonna stay behind after the sermon and confess your sins too, Sarge?" Carrot asked, as they set off across the camp. Today's location was less _campsite_ and more _crampsite_. The company had stopped in a valley between two steep, rocky hills, and the tents were wedged in so close together that there wasn't much walking room between them. Things were definitely a whole lot cosier than they had been yesterday.

"Uh, I wasn't going to. Why? Are you?"

Carrot nodded again. "Yep. I hope Lieutenant Olliver has time to hear about my sins today. I have to tell him about that Scotch. Mom would want me to ask forgiveness for that."

"Um. Carrot. Maybe it would be best if you _didn_ _'t_ mention the fact that we drank Stark's two-hundred dollar bottle of whisky." He wasn't afraid of Stark physically; the guy was beanpole-like, leaner than Wells even after his overly dramatised weight loss. But Stark had lots of interesting and worrying inventions. Bucky didn't want to wake up to find that his mouth had been sealed shut, or something.

"Don't worry, Sarge, Lieutenant Olliver told me he keeps everything in the strictest confidence. Unless I'm a German spy, which I'm not, so it's fine."

Bucky wasn't convinced that the lieutenant's oaths of confidentiality extended that far, but he could hardly deny Carrot the right to confess his sins. Rightfully, Bucky ought to be confessing, too. He was the one who'd opened the bottle and shared it out. The food was another matter; they would only have burned it as excess. But the Scotch? That had been pure, undiluted desire. Unfortunately, he quite liked desire. It was a very sinful thing to like, but he couldn't help it. And besides, the men had deserved it. He would never have kept the bottle for himself.

Maybe that was part of the reason he found the sermons do hard to sit to. Even before signing up, he'd only truly gone to church when emotionally blackmailed by his mother. Not because he didn't believe, of course, but because his folks had raised him to be self-reliant, and to own up to his own mistakes. His dad had taught him, from a very early age, that part of the measure of a man was how he accepted his own failings and took responsibility for his wrong-doings. It was a lesson Bucky had taken to heart. But doing things wrong, making mistakes, and then going and asking for somebody else's forgiveness—even if that somebody _was_ God—well, it seemed to take away the idea of personal responsibility.

In school, he'd been taught the Lord's prayer. Taught how to pray for God to watch over his loved ones. For the Holy Father to take care of his parents, and his brother, and his sisters. The problem was, he saw those things as _his_ job. He was the eldest of four children. He was the older brother. It was _his_ job to take care of his younger siblings, not God's. If Bucky had to ask those things of God, it meant he himself was failing in his responsibility to his family. And he liked that idea not one bit.

"Hey, Carrot. When you pray to God to watch over you, do you think he actually listens?" Bucky asked.

A bemused smile slid across Carrot's face. "Sarge, I don't go to church every day to ask God to watch over _me_. I ask him to watch over _everybody else_. You know, my folks back home, and Samantha, of course. And all the other guys in the 107th who don't go to church and don't know how to ask for themselves. And even the ones that do."

"What, even me?"

" _Especially_ you, Sarge." Carrot elaborated at a questioning look from Bucky. "You, more than anyone else, have to put up with Wells."

Carrot's selfless act of prayer brought a lump to Bucky's throat. Never would he have imagined that Carrot was praying for him. It wasn't that he felt he wasn't worthy of it… there were just better things for the guy to be praying for: an end to the war, or a safe return home, for example. A long and happy life with those four kids Samantha wanted. A generous pension plan.

"Thank you, Carrot," he said, clapping the taller man on the shoulder. "For praying for me. For praying for all of us. It's very generous of you to remember everyone like that in your prayers."

"It's just the right thing to do, Sarge."

He nodded. The right thing to do. Maybe it was time for Bucky to start praying more genuinely again. At the very least, prayers for his family back home couldn't hurt, especially because for the first time in his life, Bucky wasn't able to be the big brother his siblings needed.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

He made his way back to the regiment's tent, the weight of the service—and Carrot's selfless admission—heavy on his mind. He'd never considered the idea that other people might be praying for him. What about his mom and dad? Did they sit in church every week and pray desperately for his safe return? Did his mom wake up every morning fearing the postman's arrival, conscious that even if the worst happened, it might be weeks or months before she received news?

When he'd shipped off to England, he hadn't thought about what sort of hell his family might be going through. Hopefully they'd received a couple of his letters by now. Hopefully they weren't living with the constant worry of losing a loved one.

More of the men were waking when Bucky returned to the barracks, and some beds were empty. Wells was on the edge of his bed, lacing up his boots with a gleam of eagerness in his blue eyes. He beckoned Bucky over.

"I had a dream last night, about this girl I had a crush on back in high school; Meredith. She was a red-head, and drop dead gorgeous."

"I would be very happy not hearing about your dreams," Bucky told him.

"But I haven't even gotten to the best bit yet!"

"There is such a thing as sharing too much, y'know."

"But you'll like this dream."

Bucky shook his head, and Wells continued.

"So, in this dream, I was in class, and daydreaming up ways of asking Meredith out—"

"Daydreaming within a night-dream? That's gotta be a first."

"—and the teacher was droning on and on—"

"I think they call that 'educating',"

"—and that's when the realisation hit me. Where I'd heard the word 'hydra' before: my high school biology class!"

Answers were dangled seductively in front of Bucky, like a worm on a hook. "Great. So, what did your high school biology teacher have to say about hydra?"

Wells shrugged. "Damned if I know. I spent that whole class daydreaming about playing skeeball with Meredith."

The worm was snatched away before he could even take a nibble at it. "That's not so useful."

"I know. But you know what this means, don't you?" Bucky confirmed that he did not in fact know what it meant. With a grin, Wells threw an arm around his shoulders. "It's time for us to donate blood, pal."


	31. Sherlock Barnes and Doctor Wells

We Were Soldiers

 _31\. Sherlock Barnes and Doctor Wells_

The hospital tent was pretty quiet when they arrived. A few soldiers were being treated for minor ailments, but there were no emergencies going on. One of the nurses—a pretty dame with red curls pinned beneath her white hat—strolled up with a clipboard tucked beneath her arm.

"Sergeant Wells, Sergeant Barnes," she smiled, her voice a pleasantly low southern drawl, "what can ah do for you today?"

 _How does she know who we are?_ he wondered. Then he recalled how the 107th's notoriety had been spread by the other regiments who'd actively seen some of their bullshit.

A smile immediately sprang to Wells' lips. "We've come to volunteer for blood donation."

The nurses descended with the sudden ferocity of a plague of starving locusts. Bucky and Wells were practically carried onto beds, and the prodding started even before Bucky was comfortably settled. A thermometer was stuck beneath his tongue, whilst one of the women pulled up his shirt and began jabbing her fingers into what he suspected might be his spleen.

"We're not sick!" he objected around the thermometer. On the bed next to him, Wells was having a small beam of white light flashed into his eyes.

"You must be sick," a very stern-looking nurse countered as she ran her professional gaze over him. She reminded him of his mother, and he felt naked beneath her gaze despite being fully clothed. "You're offering to donate blood. You're either sick, or trying to get out of something."

"We're just being generous!" Wells said. The nurse gave a loud, un-ladylike snort. "And, um, we heard there might be cookies, after?"

At last the nurses seemed satisfied that neither of them was truly sick, and they were finally instructed to remove their shirts and lie back on the beds. Thick needles were produced, along with other instruments of blood-letting torture. This time, when the needle was stuck in Bucky's vein, it didn't pinch quite as much. He settled down into a more comfortable position and hoped there would be some angelic junior nurse to rehydrate him after.

"I've been losing weight," Wells was saying to the nurse who was sticking the needle in his arm. Apparently, the prospect of female sympathy was more important than the reason they'd come here in the first place.

She ran her eyes over him. "You look fine to me."

"That's nice of you to say! But I'm not fine. I've had to tighten my belt by a whole notch. I think I may have thyroid problems."

"Have you been feeling tired?"

"Yes! Sometimes I struggle to wake up."

Bucky shook his head. Wells had always been a heavy sleeper, even before the forced marches.

"Do you get weakness in your limbs, or a trembling feeling in your muscles?"

"Um… no?"

"Do you struggle to carry a full load?"

"Well… not exactly."

"Does walking a short distance exhaust you?"

A grin tugged at Bucky's lips as he saw his friend's chance of being diagnosed with something serious slip away.

"Not yet, but if I keep being starved as I am, it soon will," scowled Wells.

"Come back when it does, then."

When the nurses left them alone, Bucky closed his eyes and tried to relax. To not think about the giant needle sticking out of his arm. Really, it wasn't that bad. It didn't hurt, and it wasn't as if he was doing anything physically challenging. Plus, from his bed, he had a nice view.

He watched the nurses as they went about their business. They worked more quietly than men, without the griping and the casual name-calling. It seemed a little slice of civilisation in the midst of military chaos, and it brought another small pang of something to Bucky's chest.

 _Homesickness_ , he decided. _I miss the normalcy. I miss the company of dames._ But maybe he didn't have to. Maybe he could find a nice, pretty nurse to spend time with. After all, Gusty had done alright for himself, and he seemed much happier with a dame to cuddle.

The nurses of the day shift ranged from tall and scrawny to short and plump, with everything in between on offer. He immediately discounted the stern, matronly nurse; she was much too old. Another of the nurses, a slim woman with a mischievous face, he similarly discounted; the flecks of grey at her temples suggested she was older than she first appeared.

Of those remaining, Nurse Klein was clearly out of the question, and one of the others wore a wedding ring. Steve had often accused of him being girl-crazy, and of chasing after anything in a skirt, but despite his—as far as he was concerned—undeserved reputation, he had personal rules and standards. He never chased a dame who'd made it obvious his attention was unwelcome. His dad had told him, during one particularly awkward talk he'd had with Bucky and Steve aged thirteen, that there was a difference between pursuing a girl playing hard to get, and being a pest. As well, Bucky never looked twice at another guy's girl. As soon as he knew a dame was taken, that was it; she was off the table.

The southern nurse was real pretty, and her uniform hugged her body in all the right places. Or perhaps the slim nurse with the green eyes was more his type; she had a smile that dimpled her cheeks.

Neither of those nurses came to take the needle out of his arm. In fact, it was Nurse Klein who did the honours, and managed a gentle touch which didn't hurt when she pulled the needle out. When he smiled his gratitude at her, she blushed.

"I just wanted to say how sorry I am for Agent Carter hitting you," she said, as she moved over to Wells' bed.

"Don't worry about it; it wasn't your fault," Wells told her.

Bucky glanced back over to the rest of the nurses. Was it his imagination, or was that southern nurse watching him from beneath her lashes?

"Maybe you can help us settle a matter, though," Wells continued. No, it wasn't his imagination; she was definitely watching him, and a small smile graced her lips when she realised he was watching her watching him. "Sergeant Barnes and I were talking about our favourite subjects in high school, and we couldn't decide on whether we'd heard a particular term in biology, or chemistry. Maybe you can help shed some light on the matter?"

Nurse Klein blushed again, but Bucky barely noticed; the pretty southern nurse was whispering to two of the others. About him?

"Oh, I'm sure Mr. Stark would be better placed to advise you about scientific matters," Nurse Klein said.

"He's also a very busy man," said Wells, in a feigned tone of mock severity. "Anyway, the term I remember is 'hydra.' I thought I remembered it from biology, because I guess it has something to do with hydration, and water, whereas Barnes thinks it's a chemistry term. What do you think, Nurse Klein?"

"Hydra are tiny, waterborne organisms," she said.

"Are they dangerous?" Bucky asked, his concentration returning partially to the matter at hand. Maybe he'd ask the pretty southern nurse what her name was, after he'd been rehydrated. Or maybe… No, he couldn't ask Nurse Klein, she'd only go back and gossip about it. Women did that all the time. They were terrible gossips.

"Only if you're a microscopic aquatic invertebrate. You don't need to worry, the halozone tablets kill most microorganisms in water, and hydra are large enough to be filtered out."

"What do they look like?" Wells asked. "Do they have tentacles?"

"I'm afraid I don't know," Nurse Klein smiled apologetically. "My focus has always been more on human biology, and since hydra aren't a threat to human health, my education hasn't really covered them. I do know, however, that they belong to the 'hydrozoa' class of animals, which also includes jellyfish. So, I suppose you could say they're related to animals with tentacles. But like I said, Mr. Stark would be a better person to ask. He's very smart, you know."

"I know," Wells said drily. "He reminds us of that fact often enough."

"Well, I'm happy I was able to help a little. Just lie still now, and I'll go fetch you something to eat and drink. How does coffee and a Graham Cracker sound?"

"Delicious, thanks. But can I have two crackers? I've lost a lot of weight recently."

"I'll see what I can do."

Nurse Klein returned to the other nurses, and they whispered quietly before disappearing together out of the hospital tent. Why did women always go around in groups like that? Surely it didn't take four of them to do coffee and biscuits, did it?

"I think we should talk to Stark," said Wells.

"Hmm?" Bucky finally turned his attention back to his friend. "Oh. Sure. We can do that."

"Jeez, Barnes, can't you focus on something other than dames for more than a minute? You're practically drooling."

"Me? But— You—"

"Focus, pal," said Wells, reaching over to grip his shoulder. "First we unearth whatever conspiracy is going on around here, and then we can get you a dame. By the way, you ever notice how the word 'conspiracy' has the word 'piracy' in it? I'm sure that's a conspiracy in itself."

The nurses returned with coffee and biscuits. The pretty southern nurse smiled at him, and Bucky let himself be distracted by her beauty, while Wells glowered daggers at him. Bucky couldn't bring himself to care about his friend's glowering, though. Besides, Wells was crazy. There was no conspiracy; just a regular ol' mystery. Eventually, Wells would have to admit that he'd been wrong about that, at least.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Howard Stark's tent was today wedged between the motor pool and the quartermaster's stores, and he seemed none too happy about it. As soon as he saw Bucky and Wells approach, the first words out of his mouth were, "How's a guy supposed to get any work done with that racket going on?!"

'That racket' turned out to be the grinding, metallic, tinkering sound of a couple of mechanics working on a jeep. Their upper bodies were buried under in the jeep's hood, whilst myriad parts were strewn on the ground around them.

"They appear to be rebuilding an engine," said Bucky. "I don't think that's something you can do quietly."

"I could," Stark glared. "And who asked you, anyway?"

"You did."

"It was a rhetorical question." Stark lowered a pair of goggles, which were perched atop his head, over his eyes and turned his focus back to some contraption on his workbench. What it was supposed to be, Bucky could not guess; it was a mess of wires and leads, tangled like a plate of noodles. When Stark picked up a soldering iron and began soldering wires together, wisps of white smoke started curling into the air.

Bucky glanced at Wells, and received an encouraging nod.

"Err, Mr. Stark," said Bucky, desperately groping for some subtle conversation opener, "have you any idea how far the next communication bunker is?"

"Huh?"

"Well, that's what we're doing, isn't it? Capturing them, so we can figure out what the Nazis are up to?"

"And leaving behind someone to run the things and allay any suspicions," Wells added. "I bet those German fellas that Phillips puts in the bunkers are able to feed all sorts of misinformation back."

"How should I know?" Stark asked. "I'm just a scientific genius; I don't get involved in planning and military strategy."

"You must hear things all the time, though," said Wells. "And I bet you know all about hydra, right?"

Stark shot a sharp look at Wells. The goggles made his eyes look huge and boggly.

"What did you say?"

"I said I bet you know all about hydra," said Wells, and Bucky suppressed a quiet groan. Blurting out the damn word had raised Stark's suspicions. It wasn't the 'subtle' tack Bucky had hoped for. "Nurse Klein said we should ask you."

Stark shifted his weight from foot to foot for a moment, looking for all the world like a kid who'd just been put up in front of the class to read a book report he hadn't prepared. Gone was his air of show-off-my-genius superiority. Now, he exuded guilt.

"Hydra? That's an imaginary creature from Greek mythology. Hardly my area of expertise."

"But why—"

"Look, Sergeant… Sergeant," said Stark, brandishing his soldering iron like a knife, "maybe you've got free time to spend chit-chatting about nonsense, but I'm working to a very tight schedule here. So, unless you're actually some sort of electrical engineering genius, I don't have the time to talk to you right now."

"C'mon," said Bucky, pulling at Wells' sleeve. Whatever Stark knew, they'd blown their chance at getting anything from him. Wells finally relented, and let himself be led out and away from the area. "What the hell were you thinking, just blurting stuff out like that?!"

"I was thinking we had to take a chance. Shake the tree and see what fell loose, so to speak," Wells replied. "You can't interrogate someone without applying a little pressure."

" _Investigate_ , Wells. Not _interrogate_. We'll never get anything out of Stark, now."

"We got what we need. You heard how shifty he got, when I mentioned hydra. It really does mean something." Wells stopped abruptly as a bunch of servicemen from the 69th passed by on their way to the mess tent. When they'd gone, Wells took him aside, to a less conspicuous area. He also lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and Bucky quickly glanced around to make sure they weren't being watched. There was nothing more suspicious than a conspiratorial whisper. "We're on the right tracks; we just need to go higher."

Second thoughts assaulted Bucky's mind. Third and fourth thoughts joined in the attack.

"You ever consider maybe we're being kept in the dark for a reason?" he asked. Whatever was going on here, Wells was rushing into it head-first. Bucky had always considered himself a pretty straight-flier. Sure, he and Steve had gotten into trouble, but mostly it had been because of youthful high spirits. They'd toed the line with the rules from time to time, but they'd never done anything truly _wrong_ , and they'd never broken the law. Just boyhood mischief.

Technically, what Wells was doing wasn't wrong… it just made Bucky feel uneasy. He'd always respected the concept of 'chain of command,' and always believed that if people in high places kept secrets, it was usually for a just cause. Investigating senior commissioned officers, and doing it in secret, just seemed… well, it seemed like the very conspiracy that Wells claimed he was trying to unearth. What if, during their investigation, they violated protocol, or messed up some carefully laid plans? And even if they did unearth some conspiracy, what the hell could they do about it? It wasn't as if they had someone above Phillips to go to, and the man had shown more than once that he was willing to make 'problems' disappear. Bucky didn't want to be a problem. He didn't want to disappear.

"The reason is, Phillips thinks we're dumb patsies who will follow his orders without question," said Wells.

"Well, uh, yeah. That's what we're supposed to do. It's how the army works. You know rule number one: don't ask stupid questions."

"But our questions aren't stupid. We're being told to kill people before they surrender. Phillips even implied we should kill anyone who does. What if that gets back to the brass? Who do you think is gonna take the blame for that? All Phillips has to do is claim he never gave any order of the sort. It's not like we have witnesses who heard him say that. He gets off scot free, while we take the rap for breaking the law under orders. Don't you think that if we're being asked to do that, we have a right to know why?"

Bucky squirmed as Wells' arguments launched a counter-attack against his second, third and fourth thoughts. Wells was right. These circumstances weren't usual. They were very _unusual._ Executing men who'd surrendered wasn't duty; it was above and beyond. It was _murder_.

"Alright," he agreed. A smiled pulled up the corners of his lips. Wells might be crazy, but his tenacity reminded Bucky very much of Steve. If it weren't for a string of ailments as long as his arm, Steve would have been there with Bucky; and probably encouraging him to get to the truth. He had a sense of justice that was unshakable. "But we've gotta play it smarter. We can't just go blabbing stuff about hydra, not without knowing more about what it is."

Wells nodded. "Alright. We'll talk to Agent Carter. Maybe we can try a different angle. Ask her about that flag. Maybe see if we can shake something loose that way."

"Maybe let me do the talking, though. She's already suspicious of you after that bullshit you told her outside the women's tent. And because you're… well, you."

"I told you, she just needs to warm up to me. I'm actually a nice guy."

He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "And self-praise is no recommendation. C'mon, let's go get some dinner, then we can figure out how we're gonna get Agent Carter alone."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Getting some time alone with a dame had never been a problem for Bucky, but Agent Carter wasn't any normal dame, and he struggled to think of a way to get her alone without further raising her suspicions or causing her to punch him. She was, he decided, entirely too suspicious and mistrustful. What he couldn't figure out, was why. Sure, she got a lot of attention from the soldiers in the camp, but most of them weren't stupid enough to push their luck, and only Hodge and a few of the less polite guys kept up the cat-calls. But Agent Carter seemed to take any attention, or show of affection, as a personal insult. If Bucky were a dame, and he looked like Carter, he would have been flattered to get the attention of so many men.

They spent a few hours of the night, when most of the regiment were soundly asleep, discussing possible excuses to get Agent Carter alone, and how exactly they could get some information from her. Wells used the time to add to his neatly written notes, including both definitions of 'hydra' that they'd heard so far, as well as expanding on some of his conspiracy theories. Bucky was pleased to see him cross out the 'alien' line of reasoning. That was crazy, even for Wells.

As luck would have it, they encountered an opportunity to speak to Agent Carter after breakfast the next day. She was sitting at a table in the mess with a few of the soldiers from the 9th Infantry, who were all eating in a rather sheepish silence. Bucky nudged Wells, who was sitting opposite him, and nodded to the woman. When she left the mess tent alone, they abandoned what was left of their breakfasts and followed her.

They caught up with her not far from the motor pool, but just as they were about to call out for her, they ran into somebody rather large. Literally. Sergeant Dum Dum Dugan stepped out in front of them, his face a whole new set of scowls.

"There you two are," he said.

"Hey, you found your hat!" Wells grinned. "Where was it?"

"Hmph! It was under my bed."

"Your apology is accepted," Bucky said. He peered around Dugan's large shoulders; Agent Carter was almost out of sight amongst the tents.

"I didn't stop you to apologise," Dugan said. "I wanted to talk to you about a poker championship some of my guys want to set up. Thought maybe you could put—"

"Yeah, yeah," said Wells, slowly edging around Dugan. "We can discuss it later. We have… um… things. To do. Things to do."

Bucky nodded agreement, and slipped around the other side of Dugan. "Things."

They left Dugan looking puzzled, and Bucky immediately put him out of mind. There would be time for poker later. Right now, they had answers to find, and the source of their answers was rapidly disappearing from view.

As they hurried around one of the larger barracks tents, they ran straight into Agent Carter. Hands on her hips, scowl on her face, she gave them a glare that nearly froze them on the spot. Bucky quickly backed up by a pace, out of punching range, and his friend was only a heartbeat behind him.

"Sergeant Barnes. Sergeant Wells. I see you two have mended your bridges," she said.

"Yes, we took your advice and talked it out," said Wells. "And now it's all water under the bridge. The very _mended_ bridge."

"So why are you following me now?"

"We just wanted to talk to you," Bucky said. He rushed on before she could tell him he was number twenty. "About the missions we've been on recently."

"What about them?"

"Well…" Planning what to say, and actually saying it whilst attempting to sound genuinely in the dark, were two completely different things. Bucky aimed for his best innocent expression, and hoped it didn't look guilty. "We thought there were some… odd… things about them. For example, what's the deal with those flags pinned to the walls? Swastika I can understand, but what the hell were those octopus things?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Sergeant." She pursed her lips. "Had you been able to bring back a prisoner, perhaps we could have interrogated him over the matter. Maybe next time, you and your men should be a little less gung-ho."

"Next time?" Wells prompted.

Agent Carter gave a quiet, vexed hiss. "I was speaking hypothetically, of course. I believe it would behove you all to be less trigger-happy in the future."

"So," Bucky picked up, "you don't know what that strange flag means?"

"I just said that, didn't I? Why do you want to know, anyway?"

"We heard that Nazi paraphernalia may be worth something back home," Wells inserted smoothly. "You know, spoils of war and all that. Do you think the colonel would mind if we took one or two of them home with us?"

"You'd have to take that up with the colonel."

"Maybe," Bucky said, as a new avenue of attack presented itself, "we could ask those Germans who the colonel is keeping under wraps, about the flags. Perhaps it's got some sort of root in Germanic mythology."

"Colonel Phillips actually ordered us not to take any prisoners, you know," Wells threw in.

"I'm sure you misunderstood him," Agent Carter replied, her tone increasingly terse.

"Then why'd he shoot that prisoner we took on our first mission?"

"The man tried to escape. Colonel Phillips shot him to preserve our secrecy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm on my way to an important briefing. If you want to take 'spoils of war,' I suggest you take it up with the colonel."

"We will," Bucky agreed. Inside his head, all sorts of alarm bells were ringing. He watched Agent Carter stride away, her whole posture tense. "What do you think?" he asked.

"I think Agent Carter is a better liar than Stark," said Wells, as he eyed her departing back. "But, kinda like that priest back in Aureille, her first reaction should have been shock or surprise when we told her that Phillips had ordered us to take no prisoners. Whatever's going on, she's in on it."

"How much further can we go?" he asked. "Stark's suspicious, Agent Carter is hardly Miss Communication Skills 1943, and short of finding out where those Germans are housed and sneaking our way in… You wanna sneak in, don't you?" He could tell by the secretive gleam in Wells' blue eyes.

"What other option do we have? Question Colonel Phillips? That's gonna get us nowhere fast." Wells must have read some of his misgivings on his face, because he reached out to lay a reassuring hand on Bucky's shoulder. "We've come this far, pal. We can't turn back now. We gotta see it through. The reactions of Stark, and Agent Carter, should tell you that something big is going on."

He sighed, and hoped whatever was going on wouldn't result in his court-martial. "What do you suggest we do? We don't know where those Germans are being kept. Apart from when Phillips brings one to take up residence in a bunker, we never even see them."

"Then we find them. It's a big camp, but not big enough that a group of people can just disappear. We split up—because people seem to get suspicious when they see us together—and look for where those Germans are being kept. If we automatically discount the regimental tents, that narrows our options down considerably."

"Even if we find them, we can't just waltz in there in broad daylight," he pointed out. "Somebody will see."

"Then we go at midnight, when most of the camp's asleep."

"You realise this is mad, don't you?"

Wells gave a quick nod. "Because I am actually sane, I do realise how mad this is. But it's also mad that we're in France, being told to shoot enemy soldiers who've surrendered. Something is afoot here, and we have to find out exactly what it is." Wells glanced around, as if afraid of someone watching him. Just how deep did his paranoia run? "I'll meet you back at the regiment's tent after dinner, okay?"

Without waiting for a response, Wells slunk off, and not for the first time that day, Bucky wished Steve were there. Steve had always been the voice of reason, at least where anything other than enlisting in the Army was concerned, and a little reason might go a long way right now.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

If Bucky had ever considered that the life of a spy might be for him, the next few hours swiftly dashed that notion. He wandered the camp in search of the strange Germans and tried to act as if it was just another ordinary day. But whenever the eyes of other soldiers fell on him, he felt as though they could see right through him. That they knew he had some hidden agenda. With each step he took, he grew more and more certain that, soon, somebody would stop him and ask why he was acting so shifty. And what could he say? He didn't have Wells' ability to make up bullshit on the spot, largely because he parents had driven into him at a very early age the knowledge that _lying was wrong_. As far as making things up was concerned, he was sorely out of practise.

As the afternoon wore on, he began jumping at small sounds. As he was passing by the 69th's tent, he could have sworn that he was being followed. To try and shake whoever was following, he did three circuits of the tent, much to the bemusement of the members of the 69th who were relaxing nearby. After his third circuit, he either managed to lose whoever was tailing him, or he'd managed to allay the fears of his own imagination.

Two or three times, he tried to work up the courage to explore a little more around the command tent. Two or three times, he lost his nerve and quickly walked back the other way. On his fourth attempt, he'd just managed to talk himself into it, when he saw Sergeant Hawkswell step out of the command tent and look around with his sharp eyes. Bucky dodged to one side as his heart raced ahead of him in his chest. He hurried away, letting his feet pick his direction whilst his brain was occupied with trying to make a clean escape. He only realised he'd arrived at the church tent when a familiar, cheerful voice called out, "Sergeant Barnes!"

Lieutenant Olliver stepped towards him, a smile on his face. _Shit_ , Bucky thought. He'd already lied to the guy once, and lying to priests made Bucky feel real uncomfortable. When he'd been young, his mom had told him that priests were a direct link to God. That when you spoke to a priest, it was like you were speaking to the Lord. To the mischievous six year old Bucky, it had been enough to stop him from misbehaving in church, but now his mom's words came back to haunt him. He did not think God liked being lied to.

"If you've come for services, I'm afraid you're a little early," the lieutenant continued. "But I don't mind giving a private sermon, if you like!"

"Oh. I, um, was actually on my way to the hospital tent," he lied, knowing he would regret it later.

"Oh." Lieutenant Olliver's face dropped. The disheartened expression was immediately replaced by genuine concern. "Nothing too serious, I hope?"

"No. Just an… err, earache." Inspiration came from his memory. He'd had an ear infection when he'd been a kid, and it had kept him off school for a week. The boredom had almost killed him, because his ear infection had struck during a week when Steve was healthy and at school, which meant Bucky had spent his time largely alone. "Just want to make sure it's nothing serious."

The chaplain nodded sagely. "Yes, of course. I must admit, when I saw you approach, I did think you looked a little peaky. And tired, too. Have you been sleeping well?"

"Pretty well," he said.

"And… um… Sergeant Wells? Is he recovered from his vampire phobia?"

"Oh, yes. The holy water definitely helped. He sleeps with the canteen under his pillow, in case he's attacked by vampires in the night."

"Good, good. Well, I won't keep you from your checkup. We need our soldiers fit and healthy!"

Bucky slunk into the medical tent and told one of the nurses about his imaginary earache. She settled him onto a bed, and stuck a thermometer in his mouth. He used the tip of his tongue to toy with the thin glass tube for a moment, and when he saw the pretty southern nurse at the other side of the tent, he _willed_ the thermometer to give him a high temperature. If he was sick, he could stay here and talk to her, and he wouldn't have to go on some completely insane sneaky undercover midnight mission with Wells. It wasn't that he didn't _want_ to get to the truth… it was just that the truth was currently slightly less important than the pretty nurse who kept shooting smiles at him.

His heart skipped a few beats when she made her way over to his bed. _Be hot, be hot, be hot,_ he mentally chanted at the thermometer.

"How are ya feelin', Sergeant?" she asked, as her eyes danced over him from head to toe.

"Oh, you know, I'm doing okay, I guess, apart from this earache," he said, opting for _stoic bravery._ He gave her a small smile. "I'm sure it's nothing."

"This is the second time you've been in here in as many days. If you're not careful, someone's gonna think you're making excuses to be here." A tiny smiled curled up the corners of her lips.

"Then it's a good job I have you here to tell them otherwise, Nurse..?"

"Green." She winked at him, and reached out to place the back of her hand against his forehead, feeling for a none-existent temperature. "But you can call me Marielle, sugar."

He grinned, and the thermometer very nearly fell from his mouth. She had wonderfully warm hands, and skin that felt soft against his forehead.

"Pleased to officially meet you, Marielle," he said, extending his hand. "I'm B—"

Instinct made him stop and look up as two people entered the medical tent. They were MPs; members of the 9th Infantry who kept order in the camp. They were both armed, and as soon their eyes fell on Bucky, his heart sank. They could have been there for any reason, but he knew, as soon as he saw them, that they were there for him. Sure enough, they made their way over to his bed and flanked him.

"Sergeant Barnes? You're to come with us."

"But… I might have an ear infection," he offered lamely.

"Nurse, is this man sick?" one of them asked Marielle.

She plucked the thermometer from his mouth and glanced at it before offering him an apologetic smile. "Fit as a fiddle. Sorry, hun."

Bucky didn't bother asking the MPs what this was about. Even if they knew, they wouldn't tell him; military police were picked for their obedience and discretion. Besides, he didn't particularly want Nurse Green to hear about all the trouble Wells continually got him into.

It was inevitable that their march through the camp would draw stares. It wasn't every day that someone was escorted by MPs, and as they flanked him and directed him towards the command tent, Bucky wished that he was smaller. Small enough to disappear beyond the stares. Smaller than Steve-sized.

The command tent loomed. Another pair of MPs waited ominously outside it, their expressions blank as Bucky approached. He tried to tell himself that didn't mean anything. None of this meant anything. Whatever he'd been brought here for, it was a mistake. The colonel didn't know anything. He _couldn_ _'t_ know anything. There was nothing to know. All Bucky had done was ask questions, and maybe snoop a little. He hadn't broken any rules.

Maybe this wasn't even about the questions. Maybe this was about something else. The 'redistribution' involved in getting Gusty a birthday cake, perhaps. Yes, that had to be it. Things had gone missing, temporarily. Everything had eventually been returned, even Stark's doohickey, but obviously the thefts had been noticed. That's what this was about.

He was ushered into the tent, where three people were waiting. Colonel Phillips and Agent Carter were two of them. The other was Wells. Bucky's fellow sergeant was standing to attention, staring past Phillips to the back of the tent. He didn't even blink as Bucky was led in, and judging by the firm press of his lips, he either hadn't said anything, or hadn't been given the opportunity.

Bucky immediately halted beside Wells and saluted, then stood to attention. He decided the gaze-past-the-colonel stare Wells had adopted was probably best, and he mimicked it as Phillips stepped forward, his face particularly thunderous.

"Sergeants, do you have any idea why you're here?"

"No sir," Bucky said, and Wells echoed him. There was no point incriminating himself, especially if this was about the cake incident.

"Is that, _'No sir, I'm going to play dumb,'_ or _'No sir, it could be any number of things and I just don't know which one would get me into most trouble,'_?" Phillips asked.

"The former, sir." He was pretty sure ' _admit nothing_ _'_ was the most sensible option in these circumstances. The colonel had nothing to pin on them.

Phillips walked over to the table and picked up a pile of papers. "Care to explain this?"

Bucky looked at the papers, and his heart sank. They were the notes and doodles Wells had made about their investigation. Everything they had been looking into, written down for the world to see.

"Sir," Wells said, a tone of defiance creeping into his voice, "regulations state that a search of any soldier's personal belongings has to be undertaken in the presence of—"

"Don't quote regulations to me, Sergeant!" Phillips barked. "And if you try to sell me some bull story about those papers being planted in your footlocker, so help me son, I'll come down on you so hard you'll think someone dropped a house on your head."

"We weren't doing anything wrong, sir," Bucky offered.

"You've been asking questions, Sergeant Barnes." Phillips slammed the papers down on the table, and the loud _thud_ made both Bucky and Wells jump. "Dangerous questions." He glanced down, at one of the notes with a line through it. "And what's this nonsense about aliens?" Bucky kept his mouth shut. There was no way he could explain that.

"What do you know about HYDRA?" Agent Carter chipped in. Her porcelain face was cold, calculating. He should'a known she'd be suspicious of their questions about that damn flag.

"Nothing," Wells said quickly. "At least, nothing solid. We've heard a couple of different variations. Greek sea monster, tiny aquatic vertebrates… we hadn't picked our favourite yet."

"The name," Carter pressed. "Where did you hear it?"

The urgency in her voice made Bucky's hair stand on end. He and Wells had been treating this investigation as a game. Or rather, Bucky had been treating it like a game; Wells had just been obsessed with the mystery. Now, he realised this was more than a game. More than a mystery. The armed MPs had not just been for show; for some reason, the very idea that two soldiers might know more than they should about whatever this situation was, had Colonel Phillips on the edge of his nerves. It was, Bucky decided, time to start being honest.

"On our last mission, one of the Germans said it, right before he died," Bucky explained. "He said, 'Hail Hydra.' We figured it was something out of the ordinary, kinda like that flag."

"And yet you failed to mention this piece of information in your mission report, Sergeant Wells," Phillips accused.

"Yessir," Wells agreed. "I wanted to find out more."

"So you thought the matter was important enough to investigate on your own, but not to report to me?"

"No, sir." Wells finally transferred his gaze from the back of the tent to Phillips' face. "You ordered us not to take prisoners, sir. You implied we should kill anyone who surrendered. When my CO orders me to break regulations, I tend to lose faith in his motives."

"You ordered us to murder people, sir," Bucky added, throwing weight to his friend's defence. "You shot an unarmed prisoner. We didn't know whether we could trust you."

Phillips glanced across to Carter, and something unreadable passed between them. The colonel gave a small sigh, and made a dismissive hand gesture. Agent Carter walked to the tent flap and dismissed the MPs.

"Sergeants, I'm going to give you a choice," Phillips said. "And for godssake, at ease. You're making me tense just looking at you." Bucky relaxed by a hair, and beside him, Wells did the same. Choices were good. He liked choices. He liked them better than he liked MPs, anyway. Liked them better than he liked Phillips dropping a house on his head.

"You want answers, I'll give you answers," the colonel continued. "But if you're in for a dime, you're in for a dollar. Once you have your answers, you and any men on missions with you answer directly to me. If I give you an order that seems strange, you follow it without question. If I give you an order that runs contrary to an order Colonel Hawkswell gives you, mine is the one you obey. You do everything I say, to the letter. And you speak of it to no-one, not even your men. Captured men can't spill secrets that they don't know.

"If you can't handle that, then I won't give you answers. You and the rest of the 107th will spend the rest of this mission on camp maintenance, and I'll send the 370th on all combat ops in your place. Those boys are just itching to prove themselves. You now have twenty seconds to make your choice."

Bucky quickly looked to his friend. They'd gotten into this mess together, and now they had to get out of it together. Or, further into it together. Whatever the choice, he didn't want to make it alone. Looking at the expression on Wells' face, he saw the feeling was mutual. He received a tiny, encouraging nod. Part of him wished Wells had declined.

"Okay, sir," Bucky said for the both of them. "We agree to your terms." God, he hoped he was making the right decision. Hoped that he wouldn't go home after the war and regret the day he'd said 'yes.'

"Very good. Agent Carter, educate the sergeants."

"HYDRA," Agent Carter said, stepping forward with a patient, lecturing tone in her voice, "is the name of a Nazi deep science division run by a man named Johann Schmidt." The name tickled at something in Bucky's memory. He'd heard it before… but where? "We have reason to believe that HYDRA is operating outside the bounds of the normal chain of command. If they have gone rogue, then they represent a threat equal to—or greater than—that posed by Hitler. Much of what HYDRA do is experimental and exceedingly dangerous. Intelligence gathered about them suggests that their leader, Schmidt, is not content with merely advancing an agenda of Aryan superiority; world domination is his goal, and he'll stop at nothing to achieve it."

"Huh." It was not what he had been expecting. He hadn't known what to expect, but worse-than-regular-Nazi Nazis was not it.

"The communication bunkers you've been attacking are part of a secret network of facilities that HYDRA has been using to send information and orders beyond the Führer's back. Each bunker we take provides valuable insights into HYDRA's operations."

"Call me crazy," Wells said, and Bucky bit his tongue because he'd already told Wells on multiple occasions that he was genuinely crazy, "but if this is such a big thing, wouldn't it make more sense to take prisoners, instead of… you know… executing these HYDRA people? I mean, you shot the first prisoner we took, sir."

Phillips shook his head. "It wasn't my shots that killed him. HYDRA personnel have a nasty habit of, when captured, popping cyanide pills implanted into their teeth. Stops them from being interrogated. As soon as I mentioned the name 'HYDRA' to your prisoner, the moment he realised I knew he was more than some simple _Wehrmacht_ grunt, he snapped his capsule."

"Then why the deception, sir?" Bucky asked. "Why shoot him at all?"

"Because it's not standard procedure for Nazi troops to use suicide pills. You, your men and the medical staff retrieving Lieutenant Danzig's body, would have been more suspicious of a German using a cyanide pill to take his own life than you were of me shooting one. By the time I shot him, he was already dead. That's why I didn't want you to waste time and risk lives by trying to take prisoners. HYDRA soldiers fight to the death, and they can't be interrogated because they swallow their medicine before they can be stopped. When you face HYDRA troops, either they die, or you do."

Giddy relief flooded Bucky's mind, and a huge weight was lifted from his shoulders. He wasn't a killer! Or, he was, but the men he'd killed would only have taken their own lives if captured. It was a twisted thought, that he should be glad that the men he'd killed would have killed themselves if taken prisoner… but it relieved all of his guilt. It let him off the hook.

"What about those guys in the German uniforms?" Wells asked. "Are they really Germans, or are they our guys posing as Germans?"

"That is beyond what you need to know," Phillips said. "Now, you have your answers. In the future, I expect full co-operation. No more sneaking around asking questions, no more second-guessing my commands, and no more wild speculation about our purpose here. Do you understand?"

"Yessir," they both intoned.

"Good. You're dismissed, Sergeants."

Outside the tent, Bucky heaved a deep sigh of relief. There was no sign of the MPs anywhere. He set off back to the regiment's tent before Phillips could change his mind, call them back, and have Agent Carter shoot them on the spot.

"Do you believe all that?" Wells asked quietly, once they were far enough away from the command tend that they wouldn't be overheard.

"Uh… yeah, actually. Don't you?"

"Well, yes. But it wasn't the whole truth, was it?"

Oh god. He was gonna bring up the aliens again. Bucky could just feel it.

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it," his friend whispered, eyeing a couple of passing servicemen and waiting until they were out of earshot before continuing. "Carter said HYDRA were possibly more dangerous than Hitler. We're talking about a guy who has the _Luftwaffe_ and the _Kriegsmarine_ and the whole of the _Wehrmacht_ , plus the SS, the Gestapo, a bunch of crazy scientists and who knows how much mustard gas? If they think this 'Schmidt' guy is more dangerous than that, he must be doing some damn shady stuff… and even before we got here, they must have known about some of it."

"Wells, I swear, if you say aliens—"

"Not aliens. But something bad. Something really bad. And yet, the SSR is the only part of Allied Command doing anything about them. Why isn't the whole damn army hunting down Schmidt, if he's such a big threat?"

"They're probably occupied with this whole 'Nazi' situation," Bucky told him, trying to douse the fires of paranoia. "Plus, doing things quiet means we can sneak around behind the Krauts' backs, right? They can't defend against what they can't see coming."

"I guess. But mark my words, Barnes, there's more going on here than meets the eye."

What could he say to that? Wells was crazy. In fact, the whole situation was crazy. Just how long would it be before 'crazy' became 'normal'?


	32. Captain America & the Howling Commandos

_This guy._

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _32\. Captain America and the Howling Commandos_

The screen faded to black. The credits rolled. The audience cheered and applauded. Steve Rogers tried to affect a genuine smile as, all around him, people celebrated Captain America's latest victory against the Nazis. To each side of him, in the front row of the movie theatre, people were congratulating each other. Shaking hands. Slapping each other on the back _._ He could barely hear Senator Brandt's words of praise over the cheering of the audience, and when Angelo Demarci reached over to shake his hand, he merely nodded and smiled as his eyes skipped over the names still scrolling across the big screen. When he saw his own, he held his breath.

 _Steven G. Rogers_ _… Military Consultant._

He let out the breath. Demarci claimed that for Steve to get paid for the movie, he needed to be credited, but Steve's desire for anonymity increased as Captain America's popularity grew. In the end, they'd compromised. Demarci said he could be brought on as a 'consultant' of some sort, which Steve had quickly agreed to. The other actors thought he was odd, but they'd agreed to respect his need for privacy. To the first showing of the movie, he'd come wearing a freshly starched olive drab military dress uniform, and it was the first time since taking part in Project Rebirth that he felt even remotely like a soldier.

The roll of the final credits brought a final cheer from the audience.

 _'Captain America and the Howling Commandos has been brought to you by the United Service Organizations. "Until everyone comes home."'_

"You're a natural star, Steve!" Senator Brandt told him, as the crowd finally began to disperse. "Isn't he a natural, Angelo?"

"Yes, Senator," Demarci agreed. Then again, Brandt was paying the guy to be Captain America's PR Agent; he probably would have agreed with anything Brandt said. "We've had a great opening night. The flick will be in a hundred cinemas by this time tomorrow, and it bodes well for the next three movies."

Steve very nearly groaned. Three more! How was he going to survive three more movies? The endless calls for wardrobe. The hours spent in makeup. The director calling for take after take after take… and people actually did this for a living!

Making movies had been a real eye-opener. He'd thought that the process would go rather like writing a book… or at least, how he assumed a book should be written, since he'd never actually done that before, either. He'd thought that the actors would come onto the stage and play out events from start to finish. That there would be a beginning, a middle and an end. And indeed, the finished product looked like that. But the actual process of _making_ the finished product was a whole other matter.

Events were never filmed in sequence. Sometimes, the end of the movie might be shot before the beginning, dependent entirely upon actors' schedules, or set availability, or the state of the wardrobe department. Sometimes, Steve arrived on set to find that the film schedule had been completely revised, and he had to film a scene he hadn't even _read_ his lines for. Luckily, his lines were mostly short, heroic phrases and taunts for the enemy soldiers he encountered, but he still needed cue cards. None of the other actors needed cue cards, and some of them spoke even more than him!

He was useless. Completely useless. First day on set, it had been like his first day of school all over again. Only, worse. Much worse. People ran to and fro carrying equipment he didn't recognise and still couldn't name. During shooting, other things were going on behind the crew, and Steve found himself constantly distracted. He'd been told, _'Don't look at the camera!'_ so many times that he was starting to mumble it in his sleep. Sometimes, two or three movies would be shooting in the same studio on the same day, so he'd start talking to one bunch of filming crew, only to find they were the wrong crew. He'd _very nearly_ ended up in a romantic kiss scene with Rita Hayworth; Bucky would be green with envy when he found out.

And now, Steve was going to have to do it all over again.

Three times again.

He didn't think he would survive.

A bright flash seared itself across his vision, and his eyes squeezed shut of their own accord. "Darn it, Freddie. Do you have to do that now?"

"Sorry, Mr. Rogers. Just getting a couple of snaps for posterity. You look great in that uniform, by the way."

When Steve gently teased his eyelids open, he found dark-haired Freddie Lopresti fiddling with the flash on his camera. Angelo's photographer was a fresh-faced eighteen year old who'd been playing with cameras since he was old enough to walk, and he had a way of turning any situation into a photo shoot. He was pretty darn good at it, too. Steve had always loved art, and the artist in him appreciated the form and composition of Freddie's photographs, and the way the kid managed to get the most out of every shot. He even managed to make Steve look good in the Captain America costume. While Steve felt like an overdressed clown, Freddie made pictures of him look somehow… heroic. The kid was an actual, honest-to-God miracle worker.

Freddie's relentless snapping was always accompanied by compliments. _You look great. You look amazing. That_ _'s an incredible shot. You're a natural. The camera loves you._ Steve still hadn't been able to figure out whether the guy was being genuine, professional, or overly personal. Sometimes, he thought it might be all three.

"You know I don't like you taking pictures of me out of the uniform, Freddie," he told the young man.

The response was accompanied by a quick grin. "I can't help it, Mr. Rogers. I gotta obey my muse."

Steve snorted, and Freddie turned to take a few snaps of Senator Brandt, Kevin and Angelo Demarci, in front of the movie screen. With their attention occupied, Steve used the opportunity to slink away. He wasn't very good at slinking anymore—his new size meant that when he was trying to be stealthy, he actually just came off looking shifty—but he didn't want to stick around long enough for Senator Brandt to start talking business again. He'd had enough of business to last a lifetime.

Out in the theatre's lobby, the crowd was still milling. Parents and children, mostly; they seemed to be on the lookout for actors for autographs. A few held pens and paper, hopeful expressions written across their faces. For a brief moment, Steve regretted not coming here as Captain America. But when their eyes took in his military uniform, and slid right over him, he decided it was for the best. Captain America's autograph signings tended to cause stampedes.

The noise in the lobby was a loud din that assaulted his sensitive, super-human hearing, so he slipped into the men's room for a moment of peace and quiet. He found an empty stall, stepped inside it, then leant back against the closed door. A few deep breaths later, he was feeling a little easier about everything. He'd half feared that the movie would be seen as a joke. That the audience would boo and jeer. He should've known it wouldn't be like that. Comic sales were high, and the USO tours were sold out. Everybody wanted a piece of Captain America. But all Captain America wanted a piece of was the war. A _real_ piece of the war.

The quiet squeak of the men's room door barely registered to his busy mind, but when he heard a stall door open slowly, and quiet footsteps continue to the next stall door when they found it empty, his breath caught in his throat. Despite his 'glamourous' new life, despite being on the road, and making movies, and signing autographs, he hadn't forgotten, not even for a second, the events which had brought him this far. The project. The serum. Dr. Erskine. Throughout everything, one thought had been constantly in the back of his mind, whispering warnings into his ear like some angel or devil on his shoulder: HYDRA had managed to sneak an operative into a secret SSR facility, and nobody had seen him coming. There was nothing stopping them from trying that again. From making sure that Dr. Erskine's legacy was entirely erased from history.

Images of a gun-wielding HYDRA agent silently checking all the stalls for his victim raced through Steve's mind, like a scene from some moving picture. Oddly, the man in his head had the same appearance as the guy who'd shot Dr. Erskine. The assassin had come to embody the face of HYDRA for Steve, even though he knew that any other HYDRA agents would look completely different.

He felt his heart beat faster as the footsteps drew closer. Just one more stall, then whoever was out there would find him. If he had a weapon, Steve would need to act fast. Bucky and his dad had been trying to teach him to box for as long as he could remember, but until now, his body had lacked the muscle to put true strength into his punches. Thanks to Dr. Erskine, he had the muscle. He had the strength. But his body was still flesh, and he suspected he would bleed from a gunshot or a stab just as easily as anybody else.

He poised ready to punch. To grab. To kick. To shove. Whatever was needed to defend himself. He had to do it fast, because if someone came in looking for him, and found him struggling with a HYDRA agent, and word got back to Senator Brandt, Steve would never have a moment of privacy again. He probably wouldn't be allowed out in public. Much as he hated the dancing, and the lines, and the endless photographs with politicians, doing the USO shows and the movies was still better than being a lab rat. And it was better than being a babe, wrapped in swaddling and isolated away for his own protection. He'd had quite enough of that already for one lifetime.

As soon as the stall door was rattled, Steve pulled it open, lunged for his opponent, and… grabbed the white shirt of a dark-skinned man with fearful wide eyes.

"Terrence! What the heck are you doing?"

"I'm s—sorry, Mr. Rogers, I didn't mean to alarm you," his fellow actor stammered, as Steve released his shirt and tried not to blush with embarrassment. "I saw you come in here and thought I could have a quick moment to talk to you without the usual circus around."

"Of course! I'm sorry, I thought you were— well, never mind about that. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Terrence stepped back to let Steve out of the stall, and did a quick check of his chest and his tux. The suit was a little worn around the elbows, but nice enough for a movie premier. Nicer than anything Steve owned. Anything that wasn't an army uniform, anyway.

"I think I'll live." He eyed Steve warily for a moment. "That's quite a grip you've got, Mr. Rogers."

"Yeah. I eat a lot of spinach," he said wryly. "But if you wanted to talk to me alone, you didn't need to follow me into the john, Terrence. You could'a just asked."

"Oh, I didn't want you to go to any trouble for me," Terrence replied. He gave Steve a small, grateful smile. "I just wanted to say thank you. For what you did, during shooting. Thanks to you, my kids get to see a black guy do something other than carry a white man's bags. I can't tell you how much that means to me."

Steve nodded. The final day of shooting had been a difficult time for the Howling Commandos. Captured by Nazis, they'd been suspended above vats of bubbling acid in some German laboratory, only moments away from being dipped to death. Captain America was kept distracted by a horde of Nazi guards, and unable to come to their rescue. Originally, one of the Commandos was supposed to break free of his restraints, climb to safety, engage in fisticuffs with the Nazi in control of the dipping lever, and save the rest of the Commandos whilst Steve took out the heavily armed guards to allow for their escape.

The producer had hated it. _"I ain't never produced a movie with a weak deus ex in it, and I ain't about to start now,"_ he'd said. _"Find some other way of saving those men."_

The director and three writers had pored over it whilst the rest of the team broke for lunch. After three or four sandwiches—his increased metabolic rate meant he had to eat a lot more than an average guy—Steve had approached them with his own suggestion: why not have George, Captain America's Negro bag-carrier, join in the fight, to free up Captain America and allow him to save the Commandos?

The director had not liked that idea. He didn't like black actors. There was no _George_ in the comics, but Senator Brandt had told Demarci that the sheer number of blacks volunteering for the USO warranted some form of official recognition. The writers had come up with George; the guy who carried the Commandos' weapons and ammo when they weren't being used.

To Steve, using George made sense. He was in the scene anyway, throwing a new clip of ammo to Captain America but otherwise standing around doing nothing while the fighting went on. It seemed logical, to Steve, that any guy in that situation wouldn't just be content with supplying weapons, but would also want to use them to help. Instead of having George inexplicably standing around doing nothing until Captain America's rifle needed a reload, why not have him shooting at the Nazis, too?

The suggestion had very nearly caused the director and two of the three writers to walk. The more they insisted that a black guy couldn't fight the same way as a white guy, the more adamant Steve became that it happen. It wasn't just the fighting the director took umbrage to… it was the implication that white soldiers needed a black guy to save them. That a Negro might save the day. He never said it in as many words, but he didn't have to. Steve understood perfectly. Nobody wanted the underdog to come out on top. Nobody wanted a black guy to act heroically, just like nobody wanted a scrawny kid to keep standing up to bullies. At that moment, Steve had seen the director as a bully. And he'd stood up to him.

Before the situation could become any more heated, Demarci had come up with a compromise. Steve was starting to learn that Demarci was very _good_ at compromising. He was a natural mediator; probably due to all that time he spent around politicians. Demarci had suggested that, sure, maybe George could help. He could pick up a weapon and shoot at Nazis. He could free up Captain America to save the Commandos. But maybe it wasn't due to skill; maybe it was due to luck. Maybe they should show George afraid, barely able to control the weapon he was firing, hitting Nazis in a wild, almost comical, spray of bullets and missing Captain America by some act of divine providence.

The producer had liked that idea. It gave a nod of recognition to the blacks, meant a white guy could save the day, and implied that God himself was watching over the heroes, keeping the bullets away from Captain America.

To Steve, it seemed a horrible compromise. It reduced the character of George to comic relief. Made him look incompetent and foolish. But the director, realising he was possibly going to lose his star if he didn't compromise, had accepted the suggestion. And Terrence seemed thrilled to be given a piece of the action, even if he had to pretend to be something of a buffoon. So, Steve had said nothing. The show had gone on.

 _Small victories,_ he told himself, as he looked at Terrence's grateful expression. Reaching out to lay a hand on the shorter man's shoulder, he said, "Every Dad deserves the chance to be a hero to his kids."

"You sound like you speak from experience. Do you have kids of your own?"

He fought back a laugh, and shook his head. "No. Just the experience of wishing I'd had the opportunity to meet my own dad. He was a genuine hero, but he died in the war, before I was born. I grew up hearing stories of him, but no amount of stories could make up for even five minutes of being with him. It's something too many people take for granted."

"Ahh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to open up old wounds," said Terrence. "I can't thank you enough, for giving me this chance to be a hero to my kids." A wide grin, full of pearly white teeth, split his face in two. "And who knows, maybe in the next movie, they'll even let me speak!"

"Maybe we can work up to speaking," Steve said, unable to help the smile that tugged at his lips. "Maybe next movie, we can have you get punched, and give a pained grunt."

"Now you're thinking like a director!" Terrence chuckled. "Say, you probably don't remember this, but I brought my kids to see you, at your last USO show."

The memory of a dark-skinned girl in a purple flower dress, and a young boy gripping a Captain America magazine, flitted across his mind, widening his smile.

"I remember."

"You do?"

Steve nodded. "Your daughter wore a dress with purple flowers on it, and your son was carrying one of the Captain America comic books. For signing?"

"Yeah. That's some memory you've got there. But… why didn't you say anything before now, if you saw us at the show?"

"I wasn't sure you wanted me to say anything. I mean, I could'a just come out with, _'Hey, I saw you at my show last week,'_ but that sounded kinda awkward. I've never really been good at public speaking… I have a habit of putting my foot in my mouth when I don't have cue cards to follow. And it's a pretty big foot."

"That it is," Terrence agreed. "I appreciate you noticing my kids, though. Not many people would."

"Why didn't you come up for an autograph?"

"We tried. Crowd was a little large, and it started getting towards Jacob's bed time…" Terrence shrugged, as if it was of no consequence. "But now they'll get to see their papa on the big screen with Captain America himself."

An idea started to form in Steve's mind, like a buttercup opening its petals to the sun. "Which school do they go to?"

"Westbrook. That's in Watts."

"Tell you what, why don't I go there tomorrow and meet the kids, and sign that comic book of your son's?"

Terrence stared at him for a moment. "You would do that? I mean… you _can_ do that?"

"Sure. I mean, I guess so. My schedule's free." And Angelo was always encouraging him to get more on board with the PR stuff. Captain America turning up at a school sounded like great PR. "I like kids. They're honest," he added. Sometimes, cruelly so.

"Gee. That'd be great, Mr. Rogers. You'd make a whole school full of kids real happy."

"Terrence, I've told you a dozen times that you can call me Steve."

"Right, Mr. R— Steve," he amended, under Steve's withering stare.

"Are you coming out to the Velvet Lounge now?" he asked. He'd never been to the place, but a few of the 'Commandos' actors had agreed to meet up for celebratory—or commiserative—drinks after the premier. It sounded exotic. Lots of things sounded exotic in L.A. It was like a whole different culture, right there on the other side of the continent. New York would probably seem very grim, to Californians.

"Um, no. The Velvet Lounge is notoriously… select, about who they let in. Guys like me gotta be filthy rich or very famous to get a foot through the front door, and even then it's fifty-fifty over whether we get served once inside."

"It can't hurt to try, right?" He smiled as a memory of sitting in the back of an SSR car with Agent Carter came into his mind. "They can't keep closing doors in your face forever."

"I'm sure they can," Terrence scoffed. "And I don't wanna cause any trouble for anyone."

"Tell you what," Steve offered, "why don't we at least give the Velvet Lounge a try, and if we can't get you in, we'll go somewhere else."

"I can't ask you to do that, Mr. R— Steve." Terrence's eyes went wide with horror at the very idea.

"You're not asking. Besides, I wouldn't wanna drink in any club that doesn't let my friends in."

"Is everyone from New York as colourblind as you, Mr.— Steve?"

"Unfortunately not," he admitted. "I just know how it feels to have people judge you based on your appearance. I want to be better than that. And I think my dad would want me to be better than that."

"It sounds like your dad was a hell of a good man," Terrence said. A smile tugged at his dark lips. "Tell you what, why don't we head over to the Velvet Lounge and see if we can toast his memory?"

"That sounds like a great idea."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

California was hot. It was a dry heat that brought a thin sheen of sweat to Steve's forehead as he walked down one of L.A.'s more affluent streets with Terrence beside him. He was doing things today that would have been impossible for the Steve Rogers of three months ago. Heck, just walking in the dry heat would've triggered his asthma. At least New York's summer heat had a sort of humid dampness to it. At least the sun wasn't quite so blistering.

"Got any other movies planned?" he asked, as they made their way to the Velvet Lounge.

Terrence shook his head. "People aren't exactly lining up to give parts to black guys. I take what I can, and to make ends meet, I do whatever other jobs come my way. In the past year I've been a bellhop, a janitor and a grocery bagger. I still bag groceries on a Tuesday. How about you? What'd you do, before becoming the nation's hero?"

"Artist," he said. And sometimes he missed it so much that he felt it as a physical ache inside his chest. He carried a pad of paper and a pencil around on tour, and he'd whiled away long hours doodling in the tour bus whilst miles upon miles of empty fields and open roads passed by, but it wasn't the same as having access to all of his equipment. "I did comics, newspapers, cartoons, book illustrations… even a bit of painting, when I got the chance."

"So how'd you make the transition from artist to actor?"

The image of a grey-haired face wearing wire-rimmed spectacles ran fleetingly before his eyes, bringing a smile to his lips. "I met a man who changed my life." And there was so much he had to thank Dr. Erskine for. Thanks to the man's desire to see his serum succeed, for the first time in his life, Steve could run a mile without having an asthma attack. Heck, for the first time in his life, he could run a mile. He was no longer as fragile as a glass cannon. His eyesight was perfect, and his co-ordination was seemingly super-human. The strength, the speed, the agility… they were nice. But they were a bonus. There was one thing, above all else, he wished he could say to Doctor Erskine right now.

 _Thank you for making me healthy._

Sure, the process had been agonisingly painful, but he'd come to realise that sometimes, you had to pay the price for freedom. Freedom was what he now had. His heart no longer lurched when he ran, no longer missed beats or fluttered in his chest. His blood pressure had dropped so much that it might actually be _too low_ instead of _too high_. After a full day's physical work, he didn't get tired. He was finally getting to do all of the things that his friends had been doing all their lives.

The image of the grey-haired face was replaced by a pair of deep brown eyes and full red lips on an alabaster face.

 _Well,_ almost _all the things that his friends had been doing all their lives_.

He was still hopeless with women.

"Here we are. The Velvet Lounge," said Terrence, gesturing at the building in front of them. It was a tall, neon-lit building that would not have looked out of place if it was picked up and dumped in the middle of Time Square. There was a bouncer on the door, and he kept a deceptively vigilant watch from beneath the purple awning. The guy was almost as tall and broad as Steve.

"Guess there's no time like the present," Steve said. Nightclubs had never been his thing. Music halls, Broadway shows, sure, but nightclubs had a seedier reputation. Heavy gambling was just one of the vices they allegedly peddled, and though he knew a few guys from his old job who regularly went to rub shoulders and throw dice with some of Brooklyn's more infamous characters, Steve himself had done his best to avoid that sort of activity. The most gambling he ever did was a friendly game of poker every now and then with Bucky and a few old friends from their school days.

The bouncer's eyes lingered momentarily over Steve's uniform as he approached the door, but the beefy guy made no move to stop him entering. When he saw Terrence, however, he stepped forward and lifted one hand to bar his way.

"I'm sorry, but you're not on our guest list."

"How do you know he's not on the guest list?" Steve asked, before Terrence could capitulate. "You didn't even ask his name."

The bouncer was completely unapologetic. "The manager of the Velvet Lounge has set very specific entry criteria for patrons of the establishment. When… notable persons… are due to attend, I get their name on a list. Tonight, I have no list."

"Steve, it's fine," said Terrence. "It was a long shot anyway. You should go on in and have a good time with the guys. They can't celebrate properly without the star of the show."

"Baloney," Steve scoffed. "They're probably halfway to completely sauced already. But that's not the point." He turned back to the bouncer, squaring up to the man. "Can't you make an exception for my friend? He's not some stranger, or a trouble-maker; he's with me."

"And you are..?"

"I'm—" _Captain America. The nation_ _'s hero. The Star-Spangled man with a plan. The fella who socks Hitler square in the jaw three times a day whilst the USO show's on. The little guy from Brooklyn._ "—nobody."

A smug grin flitted across the bouncer's face. "That's what I thought. Now, you and your friend best be leaving. If you want to make an issue out of this, I'll have to call management."

"Oh dear!" exclaimed a sultry, feminine voice. Steve found a slender arm swiftly looped around his own, so that he seemed to be escorting the woman who'd blindsided him. "I do hope you're not turning my guests away. That really would be a shame."

Steve felt a flush begin to creep up his neck even before he looked down at the flawless pale skin, pouting rouge lips and golden-red cascading curls of Rita Hayworth. The warm flush suddenly became a heck of a lot hotter.

 _Rita Hayworth!_

Was he dreaming? He must be dreaming. Only… this wasn't _his_ dream: it was Bucky's. He hadn't even _met_ Rita Hayworth before, unless you counted that day when he'd accidentally been on her set. But he'd raced off long before the cameras started rolling. Moments before Rita had shown up.

"You know the rules, Miss Hayworth," the bouncer said. Only now, he looked a lot less certain. For a brief moment, Steve pitied the guy. He was probably just doing his job. His boss said _keep Negroes out_ , so that was what he did. Otherwise he didn't have a job anymore. He probably hadn't been expecting Rita Hayworth to show up and throw a spanner into the carefully turning cogs of the white man's machine.

"I always thought rules were made to be broken," she winked at the bouncer.

Steve held his breath. Whatever perfume she was wearing was tickling his nose something awful. Any minute now, he was gonna sneeze. He could feel it building inside his chest. _Idiot. You can_ _'t sneeze all over Rita Hayworth. Hold it in!_ Rita carried on, oblivious to his inner monologue.

"Ah well, if you're not gonna let my friends in, I guess we'll have to go elsewhere," she sighed. "You'll be a doll and tell my photographer, Tony, that we've gone across town to _Ambrosia_ , won't you? He's at the bar, waiting with our drinks. Such a shame. He was going to take some pictures for _Vogue_ magazine, and the lighting in the Velvet Lounge is so much better for my complexion than the lighting in Ambrosia. But a girl simply can't do without her entourage, you know."

Steve could see the war being fought in the bouncer's mind. _Let a black guy in the club_ versus _Lose Rita Hayworth_ _'s custom and a photo shoot for Vogue._ In the end, Rita won. Steve suspected there were very few battles Rita _didn_ _'t_ win. Heck, maybe they should send her to mediate in Germany; she seemed to be even better than Angelo Demarci.

"Very well, Miss Hayworth," the bouncer said, defeated. "You and your entourage are, as always, very welcome here. Perhaps there was some error with the list of notable persons tonight."

Rita stepped forward, and with her arm still wrapped around his, Steve was forced to step with her. From the corner of his eye, he saw Terrence follow, seemingly torn between wanting to stick as close to Steve possible, and not wanting to get too close to Rita, lest somebody find that offensive. When they reached the cloakroom, an attendant dashed out to take the fur stole around Rita's shoulders. How she managed to wear the heavy thing in the blistering heat was beyond Steve's understanding. She wasn't even sweating!

Devoid of her stole, she turned to Steve and looked up at him. He'd always imagined her to be tall, but compared to his new height, she was actually quite petite.

"Miss Hayworth, thank you for what you did back there," he said. He didn't care for getting into the Velvet Lounge himself, but he felt bad for Terrence. Being refused entry because your skin wasn't the 'right' colour had to be disheartening.

"Don't mention it," she said, as she brushed a few specks of dry Californian dust from the lapel of his olive drab jacket. "So, Mr. Rogers, I believe you and I very nearly filmed an intimate scene together, a few days ago."

"Oh. That. Yes. I'm sorry. I'm kinda new to making movies, and I didn't realise I was on the wrong set. I hope I didn't cause any problems for you or your film crew."

She smiled, displaying a row of dazzling white teeth. "I'm actually a little disappointed you didn't stay longer. You'd be a much more handsome co-star than my current one. Have you done many kissing scenes before?"

"Um, no." He felt that damn hot flush creep up his neck again. Why did his skin always betray him at the worst possible moments? "I don't think I'd be very good at the… umm… romantic movies," he said. Was 'romantic movies' the correct term? Was there a better word for movies that didn't involve fighting Nazis? God, he was hopeless at this! "I'm a little out of practise."

Rita gave a soft chuckle. "How refreshing, to find a humble man in Hollywood. Tell me, Mr. Rogers; does Captain America have a lady-friend?"

"Oh. I… Um…" He floundered. He floundered so bad that he felt like he was mired in quicksand, slowly being sucked down by the weight of his own bumbling idiocy. What would Bucky do? Probably sweep her off her feet and kiss her. But Steve couldn't do that. For some reason, his head was often filled with thoughts of Agent Carter. Which was ridiculous, because Agent Carter had been nothing but courteous and professional with him. _She smiled at you, and the other recruits saw it too,_ said a tiny voice inside his head. _Think of Agent Carter. Pretend Rita Hayworth is just some dame. Like Mary-Ann, or Janet. Someone more like a sister than a real woman._

That helped. He could talk to Mary-Ann like he couldn't talk to most girls, and it was even easier now that she didn't have a crush on him anymore. She's grown out of that a couple of years ago. Probably got tired of waiting for him to see her as something more than his best friend's sister. He couldn't blame her. And now, he could think of Rita being like Mary-Ann. A friend. Just a friend.

"Captain America is currently _very_ busy battling Nazis in the name of freedom," he told her. "I'm afraid he doesn't have very much time for the finer things in life." A flicker of an image, pale skin and deep brown eyes, jumped up into his mind. He quickly pushed it away.

"Well, perhaps I'll have my agent call your agent and see if we could maybe arrange something for one of your movies," she said. "I quite like the idea of being Captain America's best girl. He could perhaps rescue me from the clutches of Hitler."

 _Agent Carter wouldn_ _'t need to be rescued._

"That would be nice," he smiled.

"Us USO stars have to stick together," she said with a wink.

For the second time that night, Rita Hayworth surprised him. "You're with the USO?"

"Sure am. Signed up to do a tour for the boys on the front lines. My agent says I'll be going real soon. Maybe I'll see you out there, Captain."

"Yeah. Maybe."

She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, then gave a little wave as she left to find her own people. For a brief moment, Steve went dizzy and light-headed—but not because of the kiss. When the dizziness wore off, he let out a groan and ran his hand through his hair.

"At this rate, Rita Hayworth is gonna make it to the front lines before I do!"

Terrence stepped forward. He seemed to consider it safe to speak, now that nobody truly famous was around. "No offence, Steve, but what does a nice guy like you wanna go to the front lines for? From what I hear, things out there aren't pleasant. The things they'll make you do, the things you'll see, it changes a man. You might not come back the same nice guy as you left."

"That only makes it all the more important that I get to go. My best friend's out there right now, fighting for all of us, probably living in deprivation, in constant fear for his life. And I'm here, making movies and selling bonds." His best friend was a nice guy. One of the best. And Steve didn't want his friend to come back a broken shell of a man. He wanted Bucky back as he had been; a smile on his face, and a carefree stubbornness in his heart.

Sometimes, when he lay in bed at night—whether that was a hotel bed while making movies, or a camp bed whilst on the road with the USO tour—he tried to imagine the sorts of things his friend might be doing. He scoured the newspapers for any mention of the war. He wrote Bucky's folks often, telling them of his adventures on the road, but asking them to keep his… transformation… out of any letters they might be sending to their son. He wanted to tell Bucky for himself. See the surprise on his friend's face. But first, he had to _get_ to Bucky.

He simply didn't know where his friend was. All he knew was that Bucky had gone to England. From there, he could have gone anywhere. When the nights were darkest, when rain poured down the side of the tour bus, and the heat of so many people breathing fogged the windows so bad that he could barely even see the rivulets of water on the glass, he imagined his friend in some dank, filthy trench, cowering from German shells, waiting for a chance to shoot back or withdraw. Eating food that came out of packets and was hard to chew and tasted bland. Drinking water that was more mud than not. Constantly cold, always afraid that any moment might be his last. Clutching his gas mask close, for fear of mustard.

On the better days, when the crickets were chirruping and the warm night air reminded him of home, he liked to imagine that Bucky was still in England. Still waiting to be officially deployed to the front lines. Living the easy life in some temporary encampment. Getting a pass down to London every weekend, so that he could buy trinkets and souvenirs for his family back home. So that he could go to the bars and drink beer and dance with dames.

Reality, he suspected, fell somewhere between the two. Either way, Bucky was out there. Living, fighting, struggling, killing, changing. It was Steve's most frequent nightmare; that he would get to the front lines, and find Bucky had changed so much that Steve didn't recognise the man he had become.

"I can't believe Rita Hayworth wants to be in one of your movies!" said Terrence, interrupting Steve's thoughts of finding some stranger-Bucky living in his friend's body. "That would be amazing."

"She must've liked the Howling Commandos movie," Steve mused.

Terrence gave him one of _those_ grins. The type Bucky had given him, whenever he'd 'found' a girl for Steve. "I don't think she saw the movie, Steve."

"Oh."

"Come on," Terrence chuckled. He gave Steve a friendly clap on the shoulder. "Let's go find those co-stars of ours."

They stepped into the lounge to the soft sound of a trio of piano, bass and drums. The music was low, relaxing, a soft balm to soothe away the day's troubles. A smoky blue haze drifted and swirled around the ceiling, dancing to the puff of cigarettes and cigars of the chain-smoking clientele, while on the dance floor a few couples shuffled slowly to the sedate tune.

It wasn't hard to find their co-stars. The movie's success meant they were celebrating. Loudly. And they were definitely already halfway to being sauced. Their corner of the venue was filled with laughs and cheers and loud brags of their on-stage exploits. Was this what real soldiers were like? Was Bucky in with a rowdy bunch of guys who sat around showboating and bragging about how their mission had gone down? Steve itched to get out there to find out.

Their presence in the Velvet Lounge was met with some surprise. Adam Jackson, the guy who played Captain America's right-hand man in the Howling Commandos, waved to Steve with a smile which promptly slid from his face when he saw who was behind his large frame.

"Terrence? How the hell did you get in here?"

Right then, Steve suspected Adam had picked this place simply _because_ he knew Terrence wouldn't get in. Before the changes to the script, Adam's character was the one who'd been meant to escape his bonds and free the rest of the Commandos. He was still smarting over being rescued by George.

"A friend of Mr. Rogers' put in a good word for me," Terrence grinned, taking extreme artistic license with the truth.

"Well," another actor, Stewie Saucer, spoke up, "grab yourselves a waitress and a cocktail and join the celebration! It's about time we toasted our star."

They all moved up so that Steve and Terrence could slide onto the plush seat. Steve found himself wedged tightly between Stewie and Terrence. He tried to hold his breath, to make himself smaller. There was no doubt about it; he body was simply too big now.

He had no idea what was involved in cocktails, so he gave a 'ditto' on what Terrence ordered, and ended up with some sort of orange and peach fruit punch. It was nice, but if there was alcohol in it, Steve couldn't taste it. He would've preferred a beer, but judging by the drinks on the tables around him, this place probably didn't serve beer.

"Hey, Steve," said Adam, once they were all settled. "Perhaps you can enlighten us on a matter."

"I'll try," Steve nodded.

"When you're on those USO stages, and you're lifting that motorbike with the girls on it… how the heck do you pull that off? I mean, no man is that strong."

The group fell silent, a half-dozen faces watching him. He suspected this had been a topic of conversation before he arrived. They probably had bets riding on it. For one brief instant, Steve considered telling them the truth. But they wouldn't believe him. Who _would_? He'd have to demonstrate. Pick up a table with a couple of waitresses on it. Pretty soon they'd have him picking up everything they came across, just to see that he _could_. And Steve Rogers would be back to being a performing dog, even without the stage to perform on. That wasn't what he'd signed up for. That wasn't why he'd requested anonymity.

"The truth is…" he said, "…the bike's on wires. A couple of guys work a winch above the stage to lift it."

Adam slapped the table and grinned. "See? I told you. Couldn't be real. Everything on stage is fake, whether it's a movie, or a USO tour, or a magician pulling coneys from his hat. Cough up, you lot."

The rest of the group grumbled as they forked out a dollar, and a pang of regret stabbed Steve right in the gut. He didn't like lying to people, but he liked even less that he'd let them down. They really had believed that Steve was lifting that bike all on his own, and he'd just dashed that belief. Maybe one day, he could tell them the truth. Maybe one day, he'd make it to the front lines, and be allowed to fight in the war. And on that day, there would be nothing at all that was fake about Steven Grant Rogers.

* * *

 _Author's Note: During the Second Great Migration, in the early 1940s, Watts became heavily populated by black migrant workers looking to contribute to the war effort and seek better employment opportunities. Westbrook school is fictitious; to the best of my knowledge, no such school exists in Watts. For more information about the Second Great Migration, or Watts, please refer to your friendly neighbourhood Wikipedia._


	33. The Price of Success

_This guy?_

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _33\. The Price of Success_

Subject #29's agonal cries reverberated around the cold stone walls of the poorly lit laboratory. Dr. Arnim Zola tried not to hear them. Tried to ignore the piercing wails as the subject's limbs began contorting in spasm, wrenching into bone-snapping positions. Tried to pretend he couldn't hear the whistling, wheezing gasps as the subject's trachea closed up. And when the subject's death throes ceased in a sudden, violent scream, he tried not to let the fear and the nausea rise up from the pit of his stomach.

As the subject's broken body finally began to relax, as electrical impulses faded and chemical reactions began to slow down, Dr. Zola turned to his medical journal and picked up his pen.

 _'August 4th, 1943. Subject #29 did not survive the transformation process. Death occurred at 3.37pm local time. I will begin the autopsy immediately.'_

With a deep sigh, he set down his pen and sank defeatedly onto the stool behind the workbench. Each failure brought valuable insights, but he was still no closer to replicating Dr. Erskine's serum, and Schmidt was becoming more and more impatient. Each new death brought a deepening scowl to his stony countenance despite the knowledge that was reaped from the autopsies.

Not for the first time, Dr. Zola wished he'd paid closer attention to what Dr. Erskine had been doing, tried harder to get access to the geneticist's research. But Dr. Erskine hadn't trusted Zola with access to his lab, and most of his formulae had been stored in his mind rather than committed to paper. It wasn't possible to steal another man's thoughts.

Unfortunately.

Now, with Dr. Erskine gone, Zola had once more been pulled from his wonderful projects and assigned to work on the serum. That serum, he suspected, would be haunting him to his grave and beyond. He'd tried—God knew, he'd tried his hardest!—but he was not a biologist by trade. Physics was his forte, coupled with a brilliance for mechanical engineering. His exoskeletons could have ended the war by now, if he wasn't constantly pulled aside to work outside of his field on projects which were Schmidt's mad pipe dreams!

What did he have to show for his work? Twenty eight—no, twenty nine, now—dead subjects, and twenty nine test tubes of something that might find use as a biological weapon, but would never successfully create enhancements in the human body.

The door of the laboratory swung open, admitting Schmidt himself. Zola scrambled for his pen, pretended to be finishing up his note, but from the canny gleam in Schmidt's eyes, he suspected the man knew he'd caught his senior researcher in a moment of lazy introspection. Fortunately, Zola was still on his good side… for now. There was no rebuke as Schmidt strode into the room, two armed guards behind him.

Zola shivered at the sight of the guards. The helmets they wore obscured their faces in a way that prevented identification. Zola had no idea what the men beneath the masks looked like. Maybe even the men didn't know what each other looked like. Perhaps they woke and put on the helmets right away. Perhaps they even slept in them. It made them fearsome to be around. It made them something other than human. Maybe even something less than human. They certainly didn't show fear, like any normal human would, and they jumped to carry out orders with an obedience that was almost mechanical.

 _Drones_ , he thought to himself. And then his thoughts raced away, on to potential new projects to replace the failing super-soldier project. Drones, like worker ants or bees. If men could be somehow indoctrinated to obey, they would make a much more efficient fighting force. But how to implement such a thing? Chemicals, pheromones, subliminal hypnosis… perhaps something introduced into their food rations, to make them more malleable. But then—

"Doctor," said Schmidt, pulling Zola's racing thoughts back to the confines of the cold, damp lab. _Laboratory_ , they called it. Once it had been the prison's torture chamber. It was bare, unpleasant, and lacked many of the basic amenities Dr. Zola had come to expect in a proper, respectful laboratory. No wonder his work on the super-soldier serum was failing! How could he be expected to work in such primitive conditions, especially in a field outside his expertise?

"I see Subject #29 has been another failure," Schmidt continued. His beady eyes danced over the corpse slowly loosening up on the table. "What was the cause of death this time?"

"I will need to perform a full autopsy, to be certain," Zola said, standing and reaching for his surgical gloves, "but at first appearance, it would seem the serum increased the rate of cellular metabolism to such an extent that the cells began to die and the major organs failed almost immediately. There was also an interesting side-effect; the subject's windpipe closed up, as if suffering severe anaphylaxis. It may be that the serum triggered an extreme immune response in the subject's body. If that is the case, suppressing the immune system may be something to consider for the next subject."

He cleared his throat and hurried on.

"Of course, there are other, less lethal ways of enhancing the human body. My exoskeletons, for example, are capable of increasing the strength, stamina and accuracy of a soldier without the need for invasive medical treatments."

"Your exoskeletons, Doctor, are toys." Schmidt turned to him, a hungry gleam replacing the calculated look in his his eyes. Zola had seen that gleam before, when Schmidt beheld the glowing blue form of the Tesseract. "And what's more, they are an advancement that can be taken away. Underneath the metal shell remains a man of weak flesh. The serum will strengthen that flesh, make it harder, more resilient, so that even when unarmoured, a soldier can keep fighting, keep taking punishment that would kill an ordinary man.

"To the entire world, your exoskeletons are a major advancement. They are years ahead of their time. They are a triumphant credit to your unsurpassed brilliance." Zola felt his chest puff up with rightful pride. With his next words, Schmidt smote that pride to ashes. "But to me, they are already obsolete. The future of humanity is not machinery, but evolution. Superior man and superior machine will always go hand in hand, but it is man who controls the machine. Man at the heart of it. And we must make our men the best."

Zola nodded along. Schmidt no longer saw him; his gaze went beyond the walls of the lab, to some far off point in the future, when legions of superior HYDRA soldiers kept order over the whole of the world.

"Very well," he agreed, because he really had no other choice. "I shall carry out the autopsy and make what changes are required to the formula before beginning work on Subject #30. But we are almost out of viable subjects." Perhaps, when they ran out of subjects, work on the project would be halted. Perhaps Zola would be allowed to return to his exoskeletons.

"Doctor Zola, by the time you are ready to work on Subject #31, I will have fresh blood for you to experiment with. Clearly, the local population is proving less resilient than we had hoped."

Schmidt clapped a hand on his shoulder, and it took every ounce of control Zola possessed to stop himself from flinching. The head of HYDRA's grip was like a steel vice. Zola had seen what those hands were capable of doing. The damage they could inflict with seemingly little effort.

"Build me a superior a man, Doctor. With a superior man, we will have the basis for a superior army. And once we have a superior army, you will be free to work on your superior machines. No restrictions. No oversight. Other than my own, of course. Once we have a viable serum, we will no longer need to channel funds into the project; we can invest all funding in your weapons. With your weapons, and my soldiers, we will be unstoppable."

"Hail HYDRA!" Zola volunteered, trying to muster excitement.

Schmidt offered him a wry, humourless smile, and left, taking the faceless guards with him. Once more, Zola sank down onto the stool, heaving a deep sigh of relief. Schmidt was in a good mood today. He'd been in a good mood ever since the assassination of Doctor Erskine. It was an act that had cost him one of HYDRA's best men, and had tipped their hand to the Americans… but the removal of a dangerous liability had made that act worthwhile.

He knew Schmidt's good mood would not last forever. Sooner or later, he would want progress. Real progress, not another pearl on the string of failures. Taking off his spectacles, Zola wiped them on the bottom of his lab coat, and the body on the table swam indistinctly before him. The Austrian man's name was unknown to him, just as were the other twenty eight who'd died before. The men had been rounded up from one of the local villages, some sent for manual labour, others earmarked for experimentation. Perhaps Schmidt believed fresh blood would provide a wider genetic base from which to test. Perhaps Subject #31 would hold the key to the serum.

He returned his spectacles to his face and donned the surgical gloves, pulling them high over his wrists as he approached the metal table. What he wouldn't give for a decent medical assistant! Someone to do all this horrible, bloody, visceral work for him. Twenty-eight autopsies had hardened his stomach, but he still hated the smell.

Still, it was all for a greater purpose. By creating a superior soldier, he would be saving the world, and, more importantly, saving himself. He _had_ to succeed, because he had seen first-hand the cost of failing the Red Skull. And the price of failure was steep.


	34. When in Greece

_These guys._

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _34\. When in Greece_

"You know, this is your craziest idea yet," said Bucky. He glanced at Wells from the corner of his eye, and very nearly winced at the painful-looking blue and purple bruises peppered across one side of his friend's face.

"I know."

He stumbled on an exposed tree root, struggling to stay upright. With his hands tied behind his back, he had no way of protecting himself from injury if he tripped and fell.

"I don't just mean your usual brand of crazy, either. I mean, this is actual insanity."

"Yeah, I got that."

"In fact—"

"Schweigen, Amerikanischer hund!" The command was accompanied by the jab of a rifle muzzle in the small of his back, sharp enough to send a stab of pain up his spine. "Wenn du nicht leise gehen kannst, setze ich einen knebel in den mund!"

Bucky didn't speak German, but he spoke rifle just fine. If their German captor wanted silence as he frog-marched them through the forest, silence he would get. Unarmed, his shirt ripped at the collar during a violent scuffle, his face almost as bruised as Wells', it wasn't as if Bucky was in any position to argue.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _8 hours earlier_ _…_

"Sergeants, we have a problem," Colonel Phillips barked. He and Agent Carter were briefing Bucky and Wells in the command tent. This was the first time Phillips had summoned them for a mission since bringing them in on the HYDRA threat.

"What's the problem, sir?" Bucky asked.

"We've had intel on our next target, and it's going to be a challenge." He did not, Bucky noted, tell them where he'd got his intel from. Apparently there were some things they were not allowed to know. Not yet, anyway. "Agent Carter, show the men the location of the next communications bunker."

Agent Carter turned to a map pinned on a cork board. The area she pointed to was only a few miles away, but there were lots of contour lines very close together around the area. A steep incline. Very steep.

"The bunker is situated in a blind canyon," Carter explained, "rendering your previous tactics ineffective. There is only one way into or out of the canyon, through a narrow passage wide enough for only a couple of men to walk abreast. So, even if we wanted to send artillery support on this one, we couldn't."

"What about using Stark's plane to parachute a strike team in?" Bucky asked.

"Sergeant Barnes, do you or your men have any prior training in parachuting which you have not yet disclosed?" Carter sniped. Jeez, what was her problem today? Maybe it was women's problems. His mom always got real cranky for that reason. "Even extensively trained airborne troops would struggle to hit such a small target, whilst possibly taking fire from below. More likely you and your men would be scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind, and end up all over the French countryside."

"That's a shame; I've always wanted to fly," Wells grinned.

Bucky turned his gaze to the map. It was a puzzle. He was good at puzzles. And there had to be a way of solving this one. Just how did you sneak a group of soldiers into a blind canyon without getting them gunned down by some detector which could react to their presence? How did you get close enough to take out that detector, when the terrain around it was nigh on impassable?

 _Tunnelling_ , maybe. And perhaps, in six or seven months, they'd be able to tunnel right under that bunker and surprise the Nazis by coming up from underneath them whilst they were enjoying their morning bratwurst.

"I have an idea," Wells said at last. "But it's crazy."

"Define 'crazy'," said Phillips.

"Well… you remember Troy?"

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _Now_ _…_

Bucky's legs ached. His shoulders felt like they were on fire. He hadn't realised how important his arms were for walking, until his their use had been taken away. How infinitely more precarious his balance was. He'd stumbled several times, over the past two hours, and Wells hadn't done much better.

Their captor had no such trouble. Unlike his prisoners, his uniform was pristine, apart from a spattering of mud on his boots, and he was armed to the teeth with a rifle, a sidearm, and a bayonet.

How many men marched at gunpoint by Germans were never seen again? How many people were forced to walk through forests to their final resting place? It made his blood run cold, forced his muscles into a shiver he couldn't stop. Taking prisoners of war was one thing; civilians were something else entirely. For the first time since signing up, he understood some small part of what it meant to be a Jew in a country occupied by the Nazis. It was a chilling insight.

They reached the narrow mouth of a rocky passage between two cliffs, and their captor stopped them with a barked command.

"Halt! Das ist weit genug."

"Call me crazy," Wells muttered, "but I think I'm starting to understand German."

Bucky wanted nothing more than to sink to the ground and rest, but he didn't think that would go down well with their captor. The German kept his rifle trained on them as he pulled out a small radio hand transmitter out from his satchel and began speaking into it.

"Hallo, hallo, das ist Leutnant Erhardt vom Waffen-Schutzstaffel. Ich habe zwei Amerikanische spione gefangen und benötige hilfe in ihrem verhör und in der haft. Bitte antworten."

In his head, Bucky imagined the guy had just told the men in the bunker that he'd captured two American spies and needed somewhere to safely interrogate them.

For a couple of minutes, there was silence. Perhaps the men in the bunker hadn't received the message. Perhaps they were feigning ignorance. Perhaps they weren't even listening to whatever frequency their captor was transmitting on.

When the radio finally crackled to life, Bucky very nearly jumped.

" _Was machst du hier? Wie haben sie von diesem bunker erfahren?"_

The voice sounded suspicious. Bucky could guess why. The existence of the HYDRA bunkers wasn't common knowledge, not even to SS personnel. Probably _especially_ not to SS personnel. The only people who ought to know were HYDRA members.

The man with the rifle knew exactly what to tell the men in the bunker: the truth.

"Die Amerikanischen spione, die ich gefangen genommen habe, behaupten ihre mission, diesen bunker zu sprengen. Sie behaupten, es gibt andere bunker, die sie als nächstes ziel."

The two Americans he'd captured had told him of their mission to destroy the bunker. Which begged the question; how had the Americans discovered the bunker network? It was a threat HYDRA could not ignore. They would need to question the Americans themselves.

Silence. It stretched on for another couple of minutes. The HYDRA men inside the facility were probably sending a message to the nearest bunker. Telling them what had happened. Explaining they were taking in three men for questioning. Instructing them to advise HQ of this new development.

With any luck, Stark would be in place, ready to intercept that message. To send back a message of his own. _Very well. Proceed with the questioning._

" _Wir haben unser verteidigung deaktiviert. Du können nähern sich mit den gefangenen, Leutnant Erhardt."_

Their captor put the radio transmitter back into the satchel, then gestured with his rifle towards the narrow passage. "Gehen."

"Wait," Bucky said. "Before we go, I gotta ask one thing. Are you really a German? Or are you one of our guys getting much too into the role?"

The man jabbed his rifle into Bucky's back once more, and gave him a look so blank that even Colonel Phillips would have been impressed. "Gehen."

"Guess we're not authorised to know that," Wells said. A tiny smile curled up one corner of his lips as he nodded at the passage. "After you, Sergeant Barnes."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _7 hours earlier_ _…_

"I call this the Spy Kit," said Stark, as he brought out a battered old luggage case. Inside the case were several smaller cases. When Wells reached out to pick up one, Stark slapped his hand and glared at him. The hand was swiftly withdrawn. "Let's see. We'll be needing case number six, I think." Stark picked up a case, opened it by a crack, and peeped inside. He quickly closed it again and set it aside. "Oh, that's where those went. Haha. I wondered what safe place I'd hidden them in. Case number five, then."

Case number five proved to be the correct one. Several brushes and sponges were stored neatly inside, along with small jars of paint in various colours. Blues, purples and black featured heavily, but there were also yellows and greens.

"What are these for?" Bucky asked, risking a slap to pick up a yellow jar.

"In case you need to fake jaundice."

"And this one?" Wells echoed, with a red jar in his hands.

"That's blood. Not real, of course," Stark added, as Wells quickly put the jar down again. "Will you be needing blood today?"

"No, I think we'll be fine with bruises today," Bucky told him. No point going overboard. It had to look believable.

"Alright. But are you sure you want to go with the paint? I mean, if you want the real deal, I could easily find a couple of volunteers to tenderise your faces. I'd even help," the scientist grinned. After a moment of being silently stared at, he cleared his throat and rushed on. "Anyway. You should have all you need here. I suggest you ask the medical staff to administer your 'bruises'; they're more likely to be able to make them look realistic."

"Right. Thanks."

They packed up the paints and left Stark's tent. Around them, camp life carried on as normal. So far, the number of people who knew about the upcoming mission was small. If it went well, the strike team would have nothing to do but show up and dig holes. If it didn't go well…

"You don't think he was being serious, do you?" Wells asked, before Bucky could follow his train of thought to the mission ending badly. "About easily finding volunteers to punch our faces, I mean."

Bucky gave his friend a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "I'm sure he was lying. Who'd wanna punch us?"

"Agent Carter, Sergeant Weiss, Dugan, Pfc. Davies—"

"Alright, so maybe he wasn't lying." Agent Carter definitely wouldn't have any qualms about punching them. But would punching be enough? He eyed up Wells' uniform. "Maybe we should rip your shirt. You know, make it look like you've been in a struggle."

"This is my favourite shirt. If you so much as even touch it, the medics won't need to paint your face," Wells glowered. "Besides, I'm clearly the sort of fella who surrenders at the first available opportunity. If you wanna look like you've been in a struggle, rip your own shirt."

"Fine, you fuckin' baby."

Bucky took hold of the collar of his shirt and pulled with both hands. He pulled, and then he pulled some more. After a moment, he started sweating.

"Dammit, these shirts are really well made! You try. Maybe you can get a better ripping angle."

So Wells tried. After three attempts, he gave up. Luckily, a blessing in a bowler hat wandered across their path.

"Dugan!" Bucky called. They hurried over before he could find a way of disappearing. For a big guy, he could be remarkably stealthy. "Will you rip my shirt?"

Dugan gave him a blank stare.

"No, Barnes, I will not rip your shirt. I want no part in whatever new bullshit you two are getting yourselves into."

"But we're not—"

"Ah!" Dugan held up a hand, cutting him off. Wells jumped right in.

"But it's for—"

"Don't wanna hear it. In fact, I'm very happy not knowing why you want me to rip your shirt. That way, when you get into trouble for it, I can truthfully claim ignorance of the whole thing. Now, if you'll excuse me, ladies, I have some very important business to attend to."

Dugan tipped his hat as if he really was talking to a couple of dames, and went on his way.

"What a jerk," Wells scowled after him.

"Y'know," Bucky sighed, "I used to be a respectable guy. Before I met you, people believed me when I told them things." A sudden, sharp pain in his leg turned out to be Wells kicking his shin. "Why the hell'd you do that?" Bucky glared at his friend, as he rubbed his leg through his pants.

"Because," Wells glared back, "every morning, at breakfast, the chaplain stares at me across the mess tent like he thinks I'm gonna start ranting about vampires or somethin'. So don't make out like it's all my fault if people think you're full of shit. That's on you, too."

"Come on," he said, refusing to admit that Wells had a point. "We'll get Biggs to rip my shirt. He'll do a better job than Dugan, anyway."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _Now_ _…_

Bucky's heart pounded in his chest as he walked through the passage. The whole plan hinged in the HYDRA troops choosing to interrogate two American prisoners, rather than just let them walk out into a clearing to be gunned down. If that detector was still active, or if whoever was at the MG position decided to make their 'problem' go away…

When he saw the end of the passage, he held his breath. Tried not to see the broken, bloody form of Lieutenant Danzig lying on the ground, his chest shredded by MG fire. He closed his eyes, stepped out of the passage, and… nothing. There was no gunfire. No pain in his chest as his life bled slowly out. All that happened was the door of the bunker opened to reveal a man in a German uniform. If Bucky hadn't known about HYDRA, he would've thought the guy no different to any other Nazi.

He and Wells stopped when their captor commanded it, and waited while the man held a sustained conversation with the soldier in the bunker. At times it sounded heated, and not for the first time, Bucky wished he'd paid more attention to his 'basic German phrases' class at boot camp. Not that it would have helped now; whatever these guys were saying, it was more than 'drop your weapon' and 'surrender.'

When the conversation ended, their captor handed over his rifle and pistol. Bucky's heart sank. It wasn't an unexpected outcome, but he'd hoped their captor might at least keep his sidearm. Clearly, these HYDRA types weren't big on trust, especially where the SS were concerned.

There was no time for regret. The one good thing about their captor's gun being taken away, was that he couldn't prod Bucky in the back with it. But he still pointed at the open door, and instructed, "Gehen."

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he stepped forward, into the dim light of the tunnel.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _6 hours earlier_ _…_

He listened to the German flowing back and forth. Every now and then he thought he heard a word he recognised from Basic training, but the conversation had rushed on before he could try to translate it.

German suited Agent Carter. It was a harsh language, and the words spilled from her mouth as if she'd been born to be a harsh woman. Bucky suspected there was some softness underneath her harsh exterior, but if there was, it was buried deep.

If he'd been back home, with no war to fight, he might have liked the challenge of cracking Carter's hard outer shell to find the softness beneath, but right now he had too much on his plate. Getting home. Getting everyone else home. Hell, just getting through this next mission. Sometimes, every single step felt like a challenge; he didn't want that in a dame, as well.

Agent Carter finally turned her attention away from the uniformed German, focusing on Bucky and Wells. Her eyes danced over their faces, at the very realistic looking 'bruises', and at Bucky's ripped shirt. He thought a very small smile pulled at her lips, but it was gone as fast as the German conversation.

"He feels your plan is questionable at best… however, he's willing to give it a try."

"That's not exactly the level of enthusiasm we were hoping for," said Wells. "Can't you… y'know… gee him up a bit? Get him excited about the prospect of a mission?"

All three of them looked at the blank, stoic German face. Bucky suspected nothing would get the man excited. He said something in German to Carter, and they launched into yet another conversation.

"Maybe we should learn German," he whispered to Wells. It wasn't that he didn't like being reliant on Carter for translations… it was just that he didn't entirely trust her. After all, she'd kept secrets before and was keeping them still. Maybe they were strategic secrets, but he hated being kept in the dark, especially when it was his men's lives at stake.

"What've I told you about speaking foreign languages?" Wells whispered back. "Never a good idea. You'll be stuck volunteered for stuff before you know it."

Maybe that was true, but Bucky wouldn't mind knowing what was really being said between Carter and the man from the dwindling supply of Germans travelling covertly with the SSR.

When Agent Carter reached into her pocket and pulled out something small, metallic and cylindrical, Bucky's interest was piqued. She handed the item over to the German with another unintelligible instruction, and his interest was piqued further.

"What's that?" he asked.

"One of Howard's toys," she said.

"Don't we get toys?" Wells pouted.

She gave him a level stare. "No."

"What does it do?" Bucky asked.

And she told him.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _Now_ _…_

It was a chilling déjà vu. Bucky had never been in the bunker before, but its design was identical to that of the other bunkers he'd captured. It was as if HYDRA had attempted to wipe out any sign of individuality. Anything that made a place different, or unique. And if they did that to places, what might they do to people?

They were led down the corridor, where they were met by another gun-toting HYDRA soldier. This one directed them into the living room, opposite the bunk room. There, a third man waited, unarmed. Bucky and Wells were forced to their knees by one of their new guards, whilst the second armed man directed their German captor a short distance away.

When the third man stepped forward, he instantly reminded Bucky of Danny Cavanagh, a cruel bully from his childhood. Cavanagh had delighted in tormenting weaker kids; Steve had been a regular victim. Bucky suspected this guy was the German equivalent of Cavanagh.

"Who are you?" the man asked, his accent strong but intelligible.

Bucky lifted his gaze defiantly. Technically he oughta give his name, rank and serial number… but he had a part to play. Reluctant prisoner. Saboteur. Spy. He couldn't be too forthcoming with answers. It would make the HYDRA personnel suspicious.

"How did you learn about this facility?" the German asked, when his first question went unanswered.

Again, Bucky kept silent. Before the German could ask another question, their captor spoke up. Something Bucky couldn't understand. Their captor reached into his pocket, took out the metal cylinder, and handed it over.

 _He_ _'ll claim it's a data capsule,_ Agent Carter had said _. That you told him it contains information about the bunker, along with plans to cripple the entire network. If you prove too difficult to question, they_ _'ll open the capsule to learn your plans. Hopefully before they shoot you, of course._

 _What if they shoot one of us, to make the other talk?_ Wells had asked.

 _They_ _'ll prefer to keep you both alive. Question you separately at length. Try to verify the information you each give. It's a fairly traditional method of interrogation._

Bucky watched the unarmed German as he turned the capsule over in his hands, examining it from all sides. He knew he was staring, but he couldn't help it. As soon as that capsule was open, he had to be ready to act. To use the Germans' momentary confusion against them.

He didn't open the capsule. Instead, there was more conversation. Their captor seemed to be growing more and more agitated. Bucky suspected the guy didn't have Wells' propensity for bullshitting.

So concerned was he about the thought of their captor getting shot, he almost missed the moment the HYDRA soldier pushed the release button of the capsule. A quiet _hsssssss_ was the only warning he had. Agent Carter's voice came echoing back from several hours ago.

 _Howard says the gas is fast-acting, with a rapid dispersal vector. We recommend you don_ _'t waste precious seconds with holding your breath and trying to avoid the effects; just go on the offensive immediately. The effects will wear off after a few hours, and you won't be harmed._

The man dropped the canister as it hissed, and both of the armed HYDRA guards jumped back, their eyes darting around as they looked for their gas masks. Bucky took a deep breath, let the gas fill his lungs, felt _something_ happen in his throat. Something unpleasant. Something that, hopefully, wouldn't be permanent.

 _Please don_ _'t let it be permanent!_ he thought, as his fingers slid under his jacket and shirt, to the small pistol that was tucked down the back of his pants.

The unarmed German's eyes widened in alarm. "Hey, was ist—" Then his hands came up to clutch his throat, as his vocal chords swelled and he lost the ability to speak.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _5 hours earlier_ _…_

Bucky looked around at the dozen troops who were gearing up for the mission. They kept sneaking glances at his face, and one or two wore open-mouthed stares.

"And you say it doesn't hurt, Sarge?" Carrot asked, as he prodded Bucky's 'bruised' cheek.

"Of course it doesn't hurt, Carrot," Wells scoffed. "It's paint."

"It's better than a Van Gogh," Gusty grinned.

"Your old lady does excellent work," Bucky assured him. Nurse Klein had done the bruises on his face, while one of the nurses who'd previously caught Bucky's eye had done them for Wells. He'd been quite happy about that. "Anyway, you all know what you're doing, right?"

"Yeah." Gusty rolled his eyes. "Agent Carter already briefed us."

Mex stepped forward, held a hand against his chest, and fluttered his eyelashes in a coy mockery. When he spoke, he pitched his voice into a high falsetto with a heavy English accent.

"You're to stay at least five hundred metres behind Alpha Team at all times. You're to follow my lead, and not advance out of the passage until we've been given the all-clear. And while we're waiting, you can shine my shoes for me, because I love bossing men around."

The impression drew a chorus of laughter.

"That was really good, Mex," Davies grinned.

"I actually thought it sounded nothing like me," Agent Carter said, from the door of the tent. Arms folded across her chest, icy glare on her face, Bucky was surprised she didn't start with the lecturing right there and then. The rest of the team quickly resumed gearing up for the mission.

Bucky left them to it. He and Wells stepped outside, where Carter and Stark were waiting for the team, along with the German who would be 'capturing' the two sergeants. Stark seemed to have his hands full, both with his equipment, and with consoling Agent Carter.

"C'mon Peg, all I'm saying is that it was kinda funny. The accent was dead on."

"I will go and wait by the mess tent," Carter snapped at him. With a scowl for Bucky and Wells, she stormed off.

"What's the frost queen's problem?" Wells asked.

Stark shrugged. "We all wake up on the wrong side of the bed, sometimes. Now, are you two ready to test my newly unfixed Silencing Gas?"

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _Now_ _…_

There was no time for doubt, for worry, for concern or second-guessing. He felt them fall away, replaced by a calm that kept fear and unease from creeping in. He had a job to do. Focus. On the men in the room. On the mission. On the moment. He could deal with everything else later.

He slipped his hands through the loosely knotted rope and grabbed the pistol grip. His arm came up, exploiting the moment of shock and confusion. He pulled the trigger, his gun aimed at the unarmed HYDRA soldier, and the man slumped to the floor as the bullet tore through his chest.

At the side of the room, the other two soldiers were trying to call out in warning, their faces registering shock when they realised they couldn't make a sound. Wells shot one as he rushed towards the open door, felling him before he'd gone a half-dozen steps. The second raised his rifle to take aim at Wells; Bucky was faster. The _bang bang bang_ of three rapid shots echoed in his ears.

The air was still, the sound of his breath loud in the silence. He knew he had to act fast. The others in the bunker could not have failed to hear the gunshots; he still had two targets to eliminate before he could relax.

He gestured for the German man to stay down, and strode to the door with Wells on his heels. They paused at the door, guns held closed to their chests, listening for footsteps, or any sign of alarm. There was none, so Bucky peered around the door frame, taking a quick glance down the corridor. He pulled his head back just in time to avoid the bullet shot from a rifle, and a sliver of _fear_ slipped through the crack it left behind.

The situation was not ideal. Their enemy was pinned down… but so were they. The effects of the gas would eventually wear off, allowing the men in the comms room to send out a call for help. Stark couldn't intercept messages forever, and the men couldn't risk getting close enough to set off the jammers in case the MG's detector had been reactivated.

To Wells, he used the army's hand signals for, _'enter and find cover'_ as he pointed at the bunk room door, on the opposite side of the corridor, and _'I'll provide cover fire.'_ Wells nodded, and prepared to move.

As Bucky stepped out and began firing on the position from where the previous shot had emanated, Wells moved in a crouch to the door opposite. It wasn't locked, so he entered, did a quick search, then returned to the door frame with a shake of his head. An empty room. That meant the last two soldiers were inside the communications room. What would they do when they realised they couldn't get out an SOS? Would they crunch their cyanide pills, or attempt to sabotage their own equipment, to stop it falling into enemy hands?

Phillips would not be pleased if the equipment was sabotaged. He needed the place functional, so that he could leave the German operative behind to feed misinformation back to HYDRA HQ. There was only one thing for it; they would have to rush the control room and hope God was watching over them.

He gave another non-verbal command. _Advance_. While he walked at full height, Wells advanced in a crouch, their guns firing in an alternate cycle, and when Bucky's gun ran out of ammo, he slid out the clip and reloaded with a new clip from his pocket missing only a beat. When a HYDRA soldier popped up, they both re-aimed, and one of the bullets hit the man's arm. He quickly retreated again, and Bucky suspected he wouldn't be able to hold his gun with that hand.

Of course, he still had another hand.

Bucky threw himself to the floor as a gun appeared from around the doorway, and avoided the line of fire by a margin so narrow he felt the whistle of air as the slugs shot past him. Wells used the moment to his advantage, taking several strides forward, firing twice at close range to the injured HYDRA soldier. Even as the man was falling, Bucky was up and advancing again. He pushed his way into the communications room and fired once at the comms officer. The man's rifle dropped from his limp grip, his head lolling against his chest as he fell back into his chair.

His finger twitched on the trigger as his eyes sought out the next threat. Against himself. Wells. The mission. But there were none. The threat had been neutralised. All enemy targets down. Finally, he let some of the fear and worry settle in. As the adrenaline wore off, his hand shook as he flicked the safety back on the gun and tucked it back down beneath his belt. He was gratified to see it wasn't shaking as much as the last time he'd done one of these missions, though. And he hadn't been sick since that first time. Maybe he was becoming accustomed to combat, and killing.

Was that a good thing?

After making sure the HYDRA soldier really was dead, and not just faking it for the chance to strike when his back was turned, Bucky glanced over Wells, who gave a short nod to confirm that he was fine. Bucky pointed to the bodies, and then the door, and left Wells to the thankless task of dragging the corpses away.

As Wells got on with that, Bucky went to a small door set into a dark corner of the communications room. The other bunkers had held doors like this, but he'd never paid them much notice before, had simply assumed they were lockers, or storage rooms for the back-end of the equipment. Thanks to Carter's briefing, he now knew better.

The door opened to a small metal ladder bolted to the wall. He took hold and climbed up, hearing it creak and groan beneath his weight. Some twelve feet up, he came to a hatch directly above his head, and spent a moment running his fingers around the frame, looking for the bolt. He found it, slid it open, and climbed again, his head peeping out into the gunner's protected position.

He couldn't see the detector from above, nor did he think he and Wells would be able to disable it from the comms bunker; everything was written in German, and neither of them could read it. So, he pulled the ammo out of the gun and disabled the firing mechanism. When he was absolutely sure it wouldn't fire, he went back down the cramped ladder and to the front door of the bunker.

Everything was darker in the blind canyon, and in the dusky light he could still make out the narrow passage from which he'd entered. He knew the people there would be able to see him, too, but they wouldn't come out until he'd given the signal. From his pocket, he withdrew a flashlight, and aimed it at the passage. He flashed it twice in quick succession, and repeated the sequence three times. As soon as the third sequence was complete, the team came pouring out of the passage, while Wells dragged one of the corpses from up the tunnel behind him.

Agent Carter and Mr. Stark stopped with Gusty beside them at the front door of the bunker.

"Good work, Sergeants," Agent Carter said. "Did you encounter any problems?"

Bucky shook his head.

"So, the plan went off perfectly, and our German friend is safe?"

Wells nodded.

Carter turned to Stark and gave him a happy smile. "I must say, Howard, your invention seems to work superbly, and I much prefer Sergeants Barnes and Wells in this new, silent form. What are the chances of keeping them this way?"

Lucky for Wells, Carter didn't see the two-fingered salute he flipped at her back.

"Oh, I'm sure we can arrange something, Peg," Stark grinned. Together, they disappeared into the bunker, to do whatever technical stuff they did in these places. Bucky was happy not knowing.

"Can you really not speak, Sarge?" asked Carrot, as he sidled up and eyed his sergeants' still-bruised faces.

Bucky shook his head.

"I don't wanna do foxhole duty tonight," Davies said. "Will you two do it for me? Say nothing if you agree."

Bucky gave Davies the same gesture that Wells had given Carter, then pointed to the body Wells had brought up and mimed a digging action.

"Sorry, Barnes," Davies grinned, "I didn't quite catch that. Say again."

He should'a known the bastards would take advantage of his silence to get away with murder. Luckily, the silence was only temporary. Stark said it would wear off after a few hours, which meant he'd be speaking again even before they got back to camp.

In the meantime, he couldn't let the men think they could do whatever they wanted just because their sergeants were temporarily vocally incapacitated. He grabbed Davies' entrenching tool, opened it up, and shoved it into the Pfc.'s hands. Then he pointed to the body and the ground, and not even Davies could pretend to be dumb enough to fail to understand what that meant.

As Davies and the rest of the men began digging holes, Bucky sank down on the ground for a much-deserved rest. There had been six 'Germans' with the SSR, at the start of this mission, and if they left this guy behind, that would leave three at camp. Three more bunkers. Three more shoot-to-kill-and-take-no-prisoners missions. The worst part was, Bucky had made his peace with killing HYDRA troops. What would come next, when there were no more bunkers to take… it left him with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.


	35. In Dunkelheit Wohnt

We Were Soldiers

 _35\. In Dunkelheit Wohnt_

The dull khaki of the tent's roof filled Bucky's vision, and he immediately knew something wasn't right. He sat up in bed, cold air brushing against his skin as he pushed his blanket from his body. Pain, sharp and hot, travelled along his jaw and sent tiny stabs into his head, like someone had taken a sewing needle to his brain. Tentatively, he probed the inside of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. Everything felt pretty normal, except for a warm swelling of his gum at the bottom left side of his jaw near one of his back teeth. It hurt to touch, and he quickly gave over the probing. Probably just something stuck between his gum and his tooth; he would clean it extra hard, after breakfast.

A short time later, the rest of the regiment began to wake. Carrot was first, with his regular push-ups, followed in dribs and drabs by everybody else. Bucky listened half-heartedly to the early morning banter: Wells' complaints about Carrot's counting, Franklin's complaints about Hodge's snoring, everybody's complaints about Gusty's overnight flatulence. After Carrot had reached fifty, they dressed and headed out for breakfast.

Bucky had once thought that nothing could be worse than grits for breakfast, but in an amazing feat of one-upmanship, the Army had pulled out all the stops to ensure they beat the Navy in the category of Worst Breakfast Meals. It wasn't spam and beans. Spam and beans would've been a blessing. Spam and beans would have heartened the troops. Instead, every morning, they were faced with something that had quickly been dubbed 'S.O.S.'

Shit On a Shingle wasn't particularly appealing. In fact, it barely even looked edible. Slivers of chipped beef were added to a white sauce that was _hopefully_ made from dried milk, water and flour, and the whole thing was served over hardtack biscuits that the Army had stolen from the Navy and somehow been made to taste even worse. The biscuits probably started out crunchy and tolerable, but by the time they'd been drowned in creamed chipped beef, they were soggy and gooey, like flavourless dumplings

The alternative to S.O.S. was starving, and Bucky was not particularly fond of that idea. He held out his mess try and waited for his meal to be slopped onto it, then grabbed himself a cup of coffee and retreated to a table where a few of the 107th were moving their food around their trays, trying to work up the courage to dig in.

"How does your throat feel after not being able to talk for all that time, Wells?" Gusty was asking as Bucky joined them. "Does it feel sore, from lack of use?"

"Hilarious, Gusty," Wells said drily. He scooped up a spoonful of lumpy creamed chipped beef, then tipped his spoon to let it all go splattering back into the tray. Bucky suspected he'd be tightening his belt again real soon. "Believe it or not, I'm actually a quiet guy. It's just that keeping you miscreants in line takes a lot of verbal interaction. Ain't that right, Barnes?"

"Mmm," Bucky agreed.

"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue? Or has Stark's anti-talking gas not worn off yet? I seem to remember you talking just fine last night."

"It's nothin',' Bucky said, and winced when his jaw burned as he spoke. "Just a bit of toothache."

"Oh. Well, you should get that checked out."

"Maybe later." Phillips had already ordered the camp to be moved straight after breakfast. There was too much to do before then, and he couldn't afford to be tied up all morning giving blood in the hospital tent.

As the rest of the regiment tucked into their breakfasts, Bucky picked at the bits of chipped beef in the cream. His first attempt at eating the biscuit, even in its soggy form, made his jaw ache, so he stuck to the bits that didn't need so much chewing and he grabbed himself an extra coffee to make up for the lack of biscuit. _I really miss your cooking, Mom._ _I didn_ _'t think it was possible for food to taste this bad and still be edible._

After breakfast, they began to pack everything up. Footlockers were stacked in trailers pulled by the jeeps. Personal belongings were piled into backpacks, and sleeping rolls fastened on top. The flimsy bed frames packed flat for easy carrying. The tents were dismantled and wrapped up with their poles, to be carried in turns by members of the regiment. After weeks of practise, they had it down to a fine art; they could pack up the camp in fifteen minutes. Putting everything back up at the end of the march took considerably longer.

Grey clouds provided welcome relief from the sun as the company set off to their next campsite. Scouting parties from the 69th went ahead to recon the route, whilst the SSR's brass took point at the head of the column. Then came the 9th Infantry, the medical, engineering and communications staff, followed by the rest of the Infantry. They marched at a steady pace until midday, their feet eating up the miles until they stopped for a quick rest and a lunch of hard biscuits from their ration kits. Bucky had an even more difficult time with those than he had the hardtack at breakfast. Chewing just hurt too much, so he gave up after his first biscuit and stuck to water instead. Maybe dinner would be something soft. Hopefully it would be stew.

After an hour's rest, the order came to march again, and they didn't stop for another four hours. Despite the cloud cover, Bucky had never felt hotter. Everybody around him was sweating, because you couldn't undertake a loaded march in the Mediterranean heat and _not_ sweat, but none of them seemed to be suffering like Bucky was. Every step was a challenge. Sweat poured off him in a way it never had before. The pain in his jaw had subsided to a dull throbbing, but now his head ached worse, and his mouth was so parched he thought it could soak up an entire river and still not be satisfied. _Shouldn_ _'t have skipped those meals,_ he told himself. He'd feel much better when he had a bit of food inside him.

When they stopped to make camp, he sank wearily to the ground while the rest of the regiment began unpacking the tent. His plight had not gone unnoticed. Gusty, Wells and Carrot all came to check on him.

"You okay, pal?" Wells asked. "You don't look so hot." Bucky aimed an _'I hate you'_ glare at Wells, and he winced. "Okay, bad choice of words. You look very hot."

"Here, Sarge, have some water," said Gusty, holding out his canteen.

Bucky took it and drank the entire contents. "Just tired," he gasped, wiping his sleeve across his mouth as he handed back the flask. "Thanks. I'll be fine after dinner."

"Do you want me to get a medic, Sarge?" Carrot asked.

He quickly shook his head. God, no. The last thing he needed was special attention. He was just tired from the march, and hungry from not eating much. It wasn't as if he was the only guy who was tired. Everybody felt exhausted, at some point or other. Now, it was Bucky's turn.

"Thanks, but I'm okay, really," he told the other three. "You should make a start on getting the tent set up. I'll be along to help in a few minutes."

"No offence," said Gusty, "but I think you should take it easy while the rest of us get the tent up. It's not like one extra pair of hands is going to make much difference. We can handle tent duty."

"Yeah," Wells agreed, with a wicked grin. He gave Bucky a quick pat on the top of his head. "We'll do all the hard work. You just sit there and look pretty."

"Jerk," Bucky grumbled as the trio rejoined the rest of the group.

An hour later, the camp was fully functional, and Bucky was finally able to stand. He shrugged off his pack and sleeping roll, and wobbled to his feet when nobody was looking his way. He dragged his gear into the tent and sank wearily down on his bare bed. Sudden pangs of sympathy tore through him, not for himself, but for Steve. Constant health problems had kept him from not only joining the army, but also living an active life. Track and field didn't agree with Steve like thoughts of impending combat didn't agree with Gusty, only with Steve, it was worse. Bucky finally understood how his friend must have felt all those years, watching everybody else doing things that came so easy to them, whilst Steve suffered in silence.

"Dinner time," said Wells, poking his head through the tent flap to regard Bucky wilting on his bed. "Jeez, you look awful. Are you sure you don't wanna go see a medic? Maybe there's something wrong with you. After-effects from that gas we inhaled, maybe."

Bucky shook his head. "Just wanna sleep," he croaked. "After dinner. What's on the menu?"

"Spam stew. Y'want me to bring you some back?"

"Nah. I can walk."

"Could'a fooled me."

Despite Wells' total lack of sympathy, Bucky managed to make his way to the mess tent with his tray in hand. He was still sweating, though. Probably coming down with a bit of a cold. Seasonal thing. That's what happened when you continually had to spend time in soaked clothes. He'd be fine after a good night's sleep.

He drew a few stares in the mess, but nobody said anything. At the serving counter, he was given stew and a roll of bread, and then found a table to collapse onto nearby. He dumped his bread into the stew as Wells, Carrot and a group from the 107th joined him, and waited for the bread to soften enough to allow him to chew it.

"I heard we'll be here for a day or two," said Davies, tearing into his bread. Envy bubbled inside Bucky. He wished he could tear into his own bread, but he didn't think his jaw would give him permission. Stupid jaw. "It'll give us a chance to get the chickens out."

"Ooh, pleeeease let me see the chickens!" Carrot begged. "I promise I won't touch them. I just wanna see them. I've always dreamt about owning a few chickens."

"An' living off the fatta the lan'?" Wells asked, whilst Carrot's expression turned confused. "Oh, come on, Barnes, I set up the perfect rabbit joke for you there, and I don't even like the damn book."

Bucky merely waved a dismissive hand as he rolled his bread around in his stew. His brain was too tired and foggy for heckling, and joking, and thinking. He just wanted to eat, and then sleep. Too bad it wasn't rabbit stew. Spam stew was horrible. Better than grits, though. Better than Shit On a Shingle. Come to think about it, spam stew was just fine. Great, in fact. If only he could eat the bread, too.

He slurped down most of his dinner while everyone else discussed the merits of chickens vs. rabbits, and decided it was a decent enough hour to go to bed. He had no foxhole duty tonight, and no recon tomorrow, so this was a chance to get a solid eight hours of sleep. If he could do that, he would be fine by the morning. Fit as a fiddle, right as rain, and all those other cheery platitudes.

"I'm gonna turn in," he mumbled.

"You sure you don't wanna play poker?" Wells asked. "It's round three of the championship. We've got the 69th on the ropes."

"Nah. Need sleep."

"Pleasant dreams, Sarge," Carrot said, as Bucky pushed himself to his feet. "Hope you're feeling better in the morning."

"Mmph."

The walk back to the regimental tent took forever. Why did they always set up a million miles away from the mess tent? Why couldn't they set up closer to where all the important things were? He peeled off his jacket as he walked. _Too hot_. He glanced around for the shower block, but couldn't find it. Then he remembered why. _No shower block out here. Damn._ He would've killed for a shower. A nice, cold, refreshing shower. That was all he needed to feel better. That, and a good night's sleep.

In the troop's tent, he kicked off his boots and crawled under the blanket of his bedroll. His heavy eyelids fell shut as soon as his head hit the pillow, and within moments he was asleep. He dreamt of being back home, in Brooklyn, with a little place all of his own. Steve was there, and they raised rabbits. It was a nice dream.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Hey, Barnes, wake up. Barnes! Oh, god dammit… BARNES!"

Bucky opened his eyes, and immediately tried to close them again. Keeping them open was too much hard work, and his entire head throbbed like a pounding drum.

"You still with us, pal?"

Over-worked Muscles ached as he rolled over and found Wells poised to throw a pair of socks at him from his own bed. Maybe Wells was ill. He was _never_ awake before Bucky.

"Yeah," he mumbled, but it sounded more like "Yurrr." He shook his head, to try and rid his ears of that cotton-wool feeling. Regretted it, when his mouth ached from the shake.

A hand came from nowhere, cool fingers pressing against his forehead. "I think he needs to go to the hospital, Sarge," Gusty's voice announced. "He's burning up."

"'M fine," Bucky insisted. He wasn't hot at all. In fact, he was cold. How had it gotten so cold all of a sudden? He pulled the blankets up around his shoulders, to emphasise the fact that he definitely was not burning up.

"Barnes," said Wells, "if bullshit was paint, you would be an artist. And judging by the picture you're trying to paint us, not a particularly good one."

"Really, 'm fine," he insisted.

"Then why'd you go to sleep in my bed last night?"

He looked at the neatly made beds around him. Come to think of it, he _was_ in a slightly different position to normal. He'd _thought_ he'd crawled into his own bed last night… but then again, he couldn't remember laying out his bedroll, or his pillow. Guilt took a stab at his gut.

"You should'a woke me," he accused.

"You were out for the count. Besides, it only took a minute to make up your bed, and you seemed to need the rest. But you don't look any better for it. In fact, you look worse. Like one of those little rodent things that shoves food in its cheeks."

A new face appeared, peering at Bucky with interest.

"You're right, Sarge," said Carrot. "He _does_ look like a hamster."

"Y'want me to take him to the hospital, Sarge?" Gusty asked, as Bucky batted his hand away.

Wells sighed. "No. I see through your thinly veiled attempts to see Nurse Klein again. I'll take him. C'mon Barnes, we're off to see the wizard."

"You're not funny," Bucky told him.

"Slander and lies."

Dressing wasn't an issue, because Bucky hadn't bothered to get undressed before falling into some other guy's bed, so he merely pulled on his boots, loosely laced them up, and let Wells hover beside him as he left the tent. Bright morning sunlight assaulted his eyes and he quickly threw up a hand to shield his vision. Damn sun. Why did it always have to shine like that? It hurt his head, which hurt his jaw, and made him feel dizzy.

"Which way's the hospital tent today?" he asked. The days and camps seemed to bleed into one. Sometimes the hospital tent was to the left, sometimes to the right, sometimes straight ahead. Sometimes he had to pass the motor pool, sometimes he had to trudge through the 69th's slice of camp-pie. Why couldn't people just leave things in one place? It made it hard for a fella to make his way around, when they kept changing things.

"This way," said Wells. "Just follow me."

"Follow the yellow brick road." An image of Judy Garland leading a coterie of unlikely companions through a brilliant Technicolor landscape sprang to mind. Sometimes, Bucky felt like Dorothy. Carrot would be the Scarecrow, and Gusty the Cowardly Lion. "That makes you the Tin Man," he said to Wells.

"Uh-huh. Sure. Tin Man. Right."

"And we're all off to see the wizard," he added. "You, and me, and Carrot, and Gusty, and Toto."

"You haven't been eating those mushrooms Davies has been growing, have you?" Wells asked. Bucky decided to ignore him, because he wasn't actually funny.

Nurse Klein had the early morning shift in the hospital tent. She took one look at Bucky, ushered him into a bed, then ran off to fetch a doctor. Bucky didn't have to wait long. A medic appeared after a moment or two, a spectacled, forty-something, dark-haired man with a stethoscope draped around his neck

"Hello, my name's Doctor Peacock," the man said. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Doc," said Wells, his face a mask of calm severity, "I think my friend's really sick. He keeps talking about going to see a wizard."

"I hate you," Bucky told him.

"And he thinks he hates me. He's obviously very unwell."

"Hmm. Open your mouth wide please, Sergeant," the doctor instructed, and Bucky obeyed. He was subjected to much poking and prodding in his mouth, and it took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to bite down on the fingers. When the doctor prodded the sore spot on his gum, a lightning-hot stab of pain sent him nearly leaping off the bed. "Hmm. I'm afraid you have an abscess, Sergeant..?"

"Barnes," Wells answered for him.

"Yes, an abscess. How long have you had the pain and inflammation for?"

"Since yesterday morning," Bucky said, once the fingers were removed from his mouth. An abscess? Was that bad? It didn't sound good. Kinda sounded like _absence._ Only, he suspected this was worse than an absence.

"You should've come to see me as soon as the pain started!" Dr. Peacock lamented. "Why do soldiers always feel it's their duty to suffer in silence? If you'd come to me yesterday, we might have saved the tooth."

"What?!"

"The abscess isn't just on your gum, it's _underneath_ it. And judging by the swelling of your jaw, it's on the root of the tooth. Normally we would drain the abscess, but this one has gone too far. You'll have to take a course of antibiotics to bring the swelling down, and then we can extract the tooth and the abscess together."

He wanted to say, _bullshit._ To tell the doctor he was crazy, that he didn't need any teeth taking out. But when he thought of his tooth being ripped out of his jaw, another wave of dizziness assaulted his mind. The room spun around him.

"Have you ever had a tooth removed before?" Nurse Klein asked.

He shook his head.

"Oh. Well, don't worry, we'll make sure you're suitably medicated before we take it. And we'll give you some painkillers, to help you cope with the pain while the antibiotics get to work."

"Great," he mumbled, pushing himself up out of the bed. "Just gimme what I need, and I'll come back and have whatever taken out."

Dr. Peacock tutted and shook his head as he pushed Bucky back down onto the bed. "Oh no, no, no, no, no. You'll have to stay here, under observation, until twenty four hours after the tooth is removed. Do you understand what an abscess is?"

"No."

"It's a sort of pustule of infection sitting underneath your tooth. In your case, it's spread down into your jaw and is currently travelling along the nerves in your mouth, putting pressure on the whole area. Sometimes an abscess bursts on its own, but yours is so deep that even sticking in a needle to drain it will… oh dear."

He couldn't help it. The thought of that thing in his mouth, bursting, being drained, needles in his gums… His empty stomach lurched. Nurse Klein was one step ahead, handing him a bucket into which he dry-heaved nothing but acidic bile.

"Why don't I come and visit later?" Wells suggested. "When the antibiotics have started to kick in."

Bucky couldn't blame his friend for leaving. The whole 'abscess' business sounded awful. But if it stopped the pain, stopped him from retching, stopped his sides from aching as his stomach tried to find _something_ to get rid of, perhaps it would be worth taking out his tooth.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Pain ebbed and flowed like the tide. Bucky was conscious of it, but barely. The painkillers put him into a pleasant, sleepy haze, and he drifted in and out of a consciousness marred only by the throbbing of his jaw. He'd experienced pain before. Punches not blocked in time. Scrapes. Trips. Falls. The usual boyhood fortuities. But this was his first real experience with _infection_. Pain, his body could cope with. Infection seemed an entirely different game. A game he definitely didn't like.

The painkillers worked fast; the antibiotics, slower. By nightfall, Bucky was hungry, but felt too weak to eat. One of the nurses had brought him some stew, and fed it to him like he was a baby just weaned off milk. At any other time, he would've balked at the thought of a dame spoon-feeding him. Now, he was too exhausted to care. In his painkiller-haze he listened to several lectures about _should_ _'ve come to get it checked out sooner_ , as well as some thorough admonishment about skipping meals, especially when the camp was marching.

The food didn't seem to help. All it did was make him tired. So, after his dinner of stew, and after the nurses had given him a glass of water with a salt tablet in it, he drifted in and out of sleep, playing an elusive game of cat and mouse with unconsciousness. At some point in the early evening, a private from the 9th Infantry came in to have some boils lanced—a regular occurrence, judging by the comments from the nurses. The guy's whimpers as the boils were drained made Bucky's stomach rumble in complaint, but at least that guy's boils were on the outside of his body, not the inside of his jaw.

The night deepened and the oil lamps were dimmed. The calls of the soldiers in the camp, which drifted in through the canvas whenever a group passed near, finally ceased altogether. With no more patients, the medics and nurses called it a night, and finally alone, Bucky fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He woke blearily some time later, to the darkness of night. Groggily, he tried to sit up, but his limbs were lead weights, his entire body aching and exhausted from fighting off the infection in his tooth. He closed his eyes, and sought the comforting embrace of sleep.

"— _Ich glaube, wir sind bereit, uns auf die zweite Stufe zu bewegen._ _"_

Bucky's eyes flew open to darkness at the sound of the soft whisper. It was a feminine voice, low, made harsh by the language it spoke. A moment later, a man's voice replied, equally as quiet.

" _Sehr gut. Haben sie ein thema im kopf?"_

 _Germans!_ Heart racing, pulse quickening, he opened his eyes more fully, trying to pierce the darkness with his gaze, to make out _something_ around him. It was useless; he could see nothing, and exhausted mind was so dull and foggy that he couldn't even determine where the voices were coming from. They sounded close, but they may have been outside the tent.

" _Ja. Ich plane, es in drei tagen zu tun. Die ergebnisse sollten interessant zu sehen sein."_ The gloating pleasure in the woman's voice turned forced a shiver of gooseflesh across Bucky's skin.

" _Ich freue mich darauf. Wir werden in einer woche wieder sprechen."_

Breath held, heart going into overdrive, he strained to hear more. There was nothing. No cry of alarm or discovery at being overheard, no footsteps to tell him the speakers had departed… just the silence of the night.

He had to report this right away. If there were Germans in the camp—other than the Germans Phillips knew about—then they could be doing all sorts of nefarious things. Warning their leaders about troop movements. Sabotaging the camp's equipment. Or… maybe one of the Germans Phillips knew about was a _triple agent_ , secretly working for Hitler, or Schmidt. That made more sense.

"Hey!" he called out, his voice feeble and weak even to his own ears. "Hey, nurse! Doctor Peacock! Can anyone hear me?"

They couldn't hear him. His calls were too quiet because speaking hurt his jaw. Just opening his mouth hurt his jaw. Instead, he tried to push himself up from the bed… but his sedated body refused to budge. Merely collapsed back. Annoyed and frustrated, certain that at any moment some German spy would come along and try to silence him permanently, he fixed a scowl on his face and decided to stay awake until morning, until he could send for the colonel.

Yes. He'd stay awake and listen for other Germans. And if he closed his eyes, it would just be to rest them. Just for a moment. Just until the drugs they'd given him wore off.

His heavy lids fell closed once more, and within moments he was dead to the world.


	36. Doctor's Orders

We Were Soldiers

 _36\. Doctor_ _'s Orders_

"And you say there were two of them?" Phillips asked the next morning. The first thing Bucky had done upon waking was demand to speak to the colonel. One of the nurses had gone to request Phillips' presence, and he'd shown up with Carter in tow. Bucky didn't like that, because there weren't many dames in the camp, and one of them _had_ to be a German spy. Agent Carter was his prime suspect by simple virtue of the fact that she spoke German.

"Yessir," he said, acutely aware that his cheek was still puffed up on one side, and that he resembled a small rodent, only bigger. "A man and a woman. Speaking German, somewhere close by."

"What were they saying?"

"I don't know, sir. I don't speak German."

"You don't remember _any_ of the words?" Agent Carter pressed.

"No." He issued her a scowl. "Though, ' _sie_ ' might have been one of them."

"Congratulations, Sergeant, you've just identified one of the most common words in the German language."

"Colonel," said Dr. Peacock, who was loitering nearby whilst his patient was questioned, "Sergeant Barnes may not exactly have been _compos mentis_ , last night. On top of the painkillers and antibiotics, we also gave him a sedative in his stew, to help him sleep. He was _heavily_ medicated."

"I didn't imagine it!" Bucky half-yelled. "Sure, maybe I was heavily medicated, but if I was gonna imagine anything, it would be something much more pleasant than German spies. Rita Hayworth would probably feature heavily."

"The mind has a way of playing tricks, Sergeant," Dr. Peacock replied. His voice was soft, pitched to soothe in a very _doctorly_ way. Mostly, Bucky found it patronising. "We're all under a lot of stress. We're far from home, up against a dangerous enemy… it's only natural for those fears to manifest themselves in dreams, and nightmares—"

"I wasn't asleep. I was awake, listening to people speak German." He turned his gaze to the colonel; _pleaded_ with the man to believe him. "Please, sir, you know I wouldn't make something outta nothing. If I thought for even a moment that I could'a dreamt this, or hallucinated it, or whatever, then I wouldn't have brought you out here. But I swear on my life, I was awake. I heard what I heard."

The colonel stared at him for a moment, then took a long, deep breath. His usually scowl-ridden face looked even more troubled at the prospect of German spies.

"Very well, Sergeant. Agent Carter, please check with the troops who were on sentry duty last night. See if any of them spotted anyone moving around in camp… or if any of them left their foxholes for any reason."

Agent Carter pursed her lips, and Bucky could tell from the stubborn look on her face that she thought she was being sent on a fool's errand. But in the end, she gave a quick salute and a 'Sir!' so sharp that it might have taken any other man's head off. As she left, Phillips turned to the doctor.

"Doc, will you speak to your staff? The medical barracks are closest to the hospital tent; maybe somebody else heard something."

"Of course, Colonel. I'll let you know if I discover anything." He stopped to lay a hand on Bucky's shoulder, and bestowed on him a conciliatory smile. "Try to rest, Sergeant Barnes. That infection is subsiding nicely. If the antibiotics continue to work as they have, we should be able to take your tooth out tomorrow morning."

 _Oh joy,_ he thought, as he watched the man depart. As soon as the doctor was gone, he glanced back to the colonel.

"Sir, Agent Carter speaks German."

The man snorted loud enough to wake the dead. "Son, Agent Carter may be a lot of things, including a pain in my ass at times, but a German spy she is not."

Then it had to be one of the nurses. Which made perfect sense, given how quick the Doc was to shoot down his discovery.

"Then, Doctor Peacock could be the man I heard."

"I'm pretty damn sure Doctor Peacock isn't a German spy, either."

"Why, sir?"

"Because he's Jewish."

"Oh."

He put Doctor Peacock aside and began running through names. _Stark?_ Maybe. Perhaps his fortune was amassed from selling weapons to _both_ sides in the conflict. But then… wouldn't the military have checked into his dealings, before signing a contract with him? _Dugan_. The sergeant from the 69th was always being a jerk to Bucky, even when he—mostly—hadn't done anything to deserve it. Maybe he was secretly spying on the 107th, using his position to… figure out their poker styles? No, that was stupid. _The chaplain!_ Yes, of course! Nobody ever looked twice at a man of the cloth. He could be hiding all sorts of spy gadgets in his personal tent.

"Sergeant, I'd like to reinforce the doctor's instructions," Phillips said following a moment of quiet observation. "Get some rest. You look like you need it."

Yes. Rest. He needed rest. And better food. Didn't Wells say they were all being starved? Maybe this exhaustion was part of the same conspiracy.

"Yessir," he agreed.

Phillips didn't believe him. He could tell by the way the man didn't seem overly bothered about finding the German spies. Hell, maybe _he_ was one of them! A few hours later, when Gusty and Wells came to visit him, Bucky told them about his late-night discovery, and put his theories to them.

"What do you think?" he asked, after he'd outlined his reasoning for Carter, the chaplain and Phillips being potential spies. He still hadn't ruled out the Doctor entirely. Just because he was Jewish, didn't mean he couldn't be a collaborator. In fact, he would _have_ to be Jewish to be a collaborator. It made perfect sense.

Wells reached out to lay a hand on his forehead; his touch was like ice. "I think you're running a fever, and probably dehydrated. Don't these nurses give you coffee?"

He swatted Wells' hand away and shook his head. "Only water. They say coffee's not good for people on the medication they've pumped into me, and I've gotta be nil by mouth a few hours before they take my tooth."

"At least you're in good hands," Gusty said. He smiled at Nurse Klein at the other side of the tent, and gave her a coy little wave, which she returned.

Wells rolled his eyes, and Bucky silently echoed that sentiment.

"But whilst I'm stuck in here, German spies could be up to all sorts of nefarious activities!" he insisted.

"Didn't the doctor say you were out of your head on meds?" Wells asked.

"No," he glared at his friend. "He said I was _non compos mentis_."

"And you've gotta know enough Latin to realise they basically mean the same thing."

"You don't believe me!" he accused.

Wells sighed, the same sorta sigh Phillips had given him. "It's not that I don't believe you. It's just that the idea itself, of there being wolves among the sheep, so to speak, is fairly unbelievable. Speaking of Latin, they taught you _lex parsimoniae_ in science class, right?" Bucky sullenly refused to answer that question. "Which is more likely: That somehow, a couple of German spies infiltrated our camp and have managed to go all this time undetected, or that your overactive, medicated mind imagined some real, tangible threat that you could try to fight?" He sank down on the edge of Bucky's bed and offered another explanation. "Nobody likes being sick, feeling weak, and ill. Enemy soldiers are something we can fight; sickness is something we _can_ _'t_. Maybe your mind just needed an external threat as a way of counterbalancing the infection that's inside you. Turning something you _can_ _'t_ fight into something you _can_."

"I do not think my mind is that complex. I should'a known you wouldn't believe me. If Steve were here, he'd believe me."

"Then it's too bad Steve's not here. The two of you could be paranoid together."

"Yeah, too bad I haven't got a friend who knows the meaning of 'trust,'" he shot back. "Figured I've earned a little of that by now."

"I'm just gonna… go… say hello to Audrey," said Gusty, sidling nervously away.

Guilt gnawed at Bucky's gut; guilt that his bickering had driven Gusty away. But it wasn't his fault. Wells was being entirely unreasonable. But then, Wells had barely batted an eye when Tipper told them of the Germans aboard the _King George._ Was that because he'd already known about them? Maybe Wells was the spy. He already spoke French; how different could German be?

"Look," Wells said, when Gusty was as far away as he could possibly get, "I don't appreciate the emotional blackmail bullshit. Of course you've earned my trust. A thousand times over, probably. You've saved my life at least twice, and put up with a lot of crap from me. More than anybody reasonably should do. If it helps to ease your mind, I'll look into the chaplain for you."

"Yeah," Bucky said. Inside, his suspicions grew. "That would be great." Wells hated the chaplain, so why was he offering to investigate the guy? Was it to throw Bucky off the trail? "Let me know if you find anything." What, if anything, he found, might be indicative of Wells' allegiance.

Bucky wasn't much in the mood for conversation after that, so Wells and Gusty left him to his introspective silence. The one good thing about this terrifying new mystery was that it took his mind off the pain. At midday, the nurses came along with more pills, and more syringes, and more stew, and gave him a bit of everything. That was nice, because it dulled the pain and made him sleepy, and for a while he drifted in and out of sleep and briefly managed to forget entirely about German spies.

Before dinner time, Carrot and Hawkins came visiting. Bucky _wanted_ to believe they'd come out of concern for him… but what if they were Germans? What if they'd gotten wind of his late-night eavesdropping, and wanted to know exactly how much he might have heard? He tried to tell himself that it was stupid, that he was going beyond normal paranoia and into plain ol' crazy town, but part of him knew that until the spies were found, anybody, even the nicest of nice guys, could be a risk.

After dinner, Nurse Klein came along, to deliver some good news.

"Doctor Peacock will be performing your tooth extraction tomorrow, and he's decided to administer a general anaesthetic. That means you won't be conscious when the tooth is removed."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Some people find tooth extraction a little traumatic, especially when it's a molar being removed, like yours. And in your case, the abscess may cause additional pain that a normal local anaesthetic can't mask. The doctor is afraid that you might become overly agitated during the surgery if you have to stay awake through it."

"And after that, I can go back to the barracks?"

She gave him a cheery smile that dimpled her cheeks. When she smiled like that, he could see why Gusty liked her so much.

"Once you're recovered enough to resume light duties, yes. And don't worry about tomorrow; I'll be assisting Doctor Peacock during the procedure. I'll make sure it's smooth sailing. It will be over before you know it. Now, try to get plenty of sleep tonight. We want you well-rested for tomorrow."

 _Sleep_. Like they weren't just going to sedate him anyway. How could he sleep at a time like this? The last time he'd closed his eyes for the night in this hospital, he'd woken up to find Nazis whispering in the shadows. He wouldn't be sleeping tonight. No sir. Not James Buchanan Barnes.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky's eyes opened to the inside of a khaki tent and were immediately hit with a sledgehammer of light. It went right through his peepers and bounced off his brain, sending a lightning bolt of pain down his spine, bringing up a dizzying wave of nausea on its return trip.

"What happened?" he said, or tried to. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton wool. He spat something out, and saw it _was_ cotton wool. It landed on the blanket covering him, the wad of wool red and white like a candy cane on a Christmas tree.

"Good morning, Sergeant Barnes," Nurse Klein smiled down at him in his reclined position. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I went out last night and had too much to drink," he said. _Groggy_. That was how he felt. Like he needed another eight or ten hours of sleep. "What happened to me?"

"We took your tooth out, of course! What's the last thing you remember?"

Bucky ran his mind back over the past few hours whilst he ran his tongue over the gaping hole in his lower jaw. It felt all soft and squishy and raw, and it hurt like hell when he gently probed it.

"I dunno. I was in bed, thinking that I wouldn't get any sleeping done. Then I woke up here. Why don't I remember anything from before the surgery?"

"That happens, sometimes," she said. "It can be temporary, but it's nothing to be worried about. Retrograde amnesia can't affect anything from that point onward. You didn't miss anything exciting, anyway. Oh, I have something for you!" She turned to a small table and picked up something up from the top. It was a glass beaker, and in the bottom was a large, creamy-white tooth, with what looked like a tree attached to the bottom of it. On the tree was a small oval mass not even a centimetre wide. "Just in case you want it for the tooth fairy."

" _That_ little thing caused me so much pain?" he said, peering in at the abscess.

"Yes. It's actually quite large, as far as abscesses go. No wonder you were in agony! Would you like to keep the tooth?"

"Um, no, it's fine. Thanks." He sank back onto his pillow and probed his gummy gap again. "Can I go back to the barracks now?"

"Not quite yet. We've given you another shot of antibiotics, just in case the infection ran along your jaw, and we want to monitor the gum for a while; it bled heavily when we took the tooth out. We need to make sure it's starting to heal, and doesn't begin bleeding again, before we let you go back. Maybe by tonight, if things go well." She smiled when she saw the disappointment etched on his face. "Take the opportunity to rest and relax, Sergeant. It's not every day you get to lie around in bed doing nothing. Why don't I fetch you something to eat and drink?"

 _Food._ Yes. His stomach was growling at the very idea.

"Can I have coffee and a cookie?" he asked hopefully.

"I'm sorry, but we can't let you have anything too hot whilst the gum's recovering. Tepid or cold water only, I'm afraid. As for a cookie… it's too hard. You'll have to stick to soft foods for a couple of days. We don't want something sharp jabbing in that gum and making it bleed again. I think there's some tinned fruit in syrup in the stores. I'll go and get you some." She reached out to give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Let me know if you'd like a book brought to you."

He nodded, and she left to source him some soft, squishy food. _Like I_ _'m a damn baby._

He ran his tongue over his gum again. They were horrible things, gums. If it hurt that much to take a tooth out, did it hurt as much for one to grow through? No wonder babies screamed when they were teething. But at least when they teethed, they were too young to ever remember it.

 _Memory._ Why couldn't he remember anything from the night before? Sure, Nurse Klein said it wasn't uncommon, but he had only her word for that.

He sat up in bed as a new thought hit him, and he kicked himself for not seeing the connection earlier. _Nurse Klein was the female Nazi spy!_ It made perfect sense! She must have met up with someone near the hospital tent, hoping that Bucky's sedatives would keep him asleep. But that hadn't worked, so last night, or this morning, she'd done something to erase his memory. That was why she was working on his tooth extraction; to make sure he woke up with no memory of anything that had happened the night before.

But what _had_ happened the night before? What had been worth erasing his memory over? The thought that something had happened to him, something he couldn't remember, brought a chill to his flesh and set his heart racing, his mouth dry as a summer desert. He'd been so won over by Nurse Klein's smiles and pleasant bedside manner that he hadn't considered she might be an insidious viper. Poor Gusty! He was gonna be heart-broken when he found out.

Well, Bucky would just have to pick up the pieces of Gusty's heart later. Unless… was Gusty the second spy? No, that was stupid. Or… was it? Either way, Bucky could find out. Now that he knew about Nurse Klein, he could force her to tell him the truth. He could wring the identity of her co-conspirator out of her. Then the colonel, and the doctor, and Wells, and everybody else, would finally believe him. They'd know that he'd been telling truth all along, and not imagining some conspiracy. He wasn't crazy. He was sane. The only sane guy in the camp, sometimes.

His eyes darted around the hospital as his heart thudded in his chest.

 _Thud thud._

A surgical kit lay on a nearby table, its instruments cold, gleaming their stainless steel winks at him.

 _Thud thud._

He pushed himself up off the bed and made his way over to the kit as his palms turned sweaty.

 _Do it,_ his heartbeat seemed to say. _Thud thud. Do it. Thud thud. Do it._

Reaching out, he picked up the scalpel and turned it back on itself in his hand, so that it was concealed by his forearm. Then, he returned to the bed.

 _Thud thud._

He waited. Felt his heartbeat increase. His thoughts raced along. She'd poisoned him, somehow. In fact, she was responsible for his abscess. She'd put it on his tooth, made him sick, just so she could operate on him. Wanted to make him look mad in front of the brass. In front of his friends. That was her ploy. Get the entire troop medically discharged, one soldier at a time. Loss by attrition. The Allies couldn't win the war if they were all holed up with tooth aches and memory loss. And he'd almost believed it was Carter.

Nurse Klein returned and beamed another smile at him, but he wasn't fooled this time. Wasn't taken in by her dimples and her laughing eyes. Those eyes were only laughing at him. At the patsy she'd made him. At the time and memory she'd stolen from him. He wanted them back. He needed to know what he'd seen last night; why she'd taken it all away from him.

"Here we are," she said, placing a tray of soft fruit on the table beside his bed. "I hope you don't mind tinned pears."

"Klein," he mused. "That's a German name, isn't it?" In his hand, the scalpel felt cold as a shard of ice. _Thud thud. Do it._

"Oh, I don't know, is it?" She gave a quiet laugh. Almost… nervous. "My Mama always said our family was Dutch, but I guess I could have some German ancestors, somewhere along the line. Now, eat up your pears!"

 _Thud thud. Do it. Poisoned._

Yes. She'd poisoned his food. Not content with stealing his memories, she was now trying to take his life. Well, she was gonna fail, because he'd got her number. Figured out her plot. And now, it was time to expose her for what she was: a traitor.

He moved fast, buoyed by a surge of adrenaline and fear. Grabbed her wrist. Turned her around and brought his right arm across her shoulders, scalpel to her throat. She screamed, loud and high, but that was fine; let them come. Her confession would be all the sweeter in front of an audience.

"Why did you steal my memories?!" he demanded.

Beneath his arm, she shook with terror. Feigned terror. She was a good actress. Good as Rita Hayworth. Better, because any man would have noticed Rita right away, but nobody looked twice at Nurse Klein.

"I—I didn't—" she whimpered, and he squeezed more tightly with his arm.

"Don't lie! I know who you are!" He spat the words in a snarl. She'd hurt him. Made him suffer. Stolen his memories. And he needed to know why. "Tell me what you're planning, you and your Nazi buddy."

"I don't know what—"

"Liar!" he growled. "No more lies! If you speak anything but the truth, I'll cut out your tongue. You're a Nazi spy, admit it!"

"Sergeant Barnes!"

Colonel Phillips voice was an unwelcome invader in his private interrogation. He looked up at the entrance of the tent, where Phillips was standing with Agent Carter and two armed MPs. He tried to pull the snarl from his lips, but it wasn't easy; he hated lies. Her body pinned against his, Nurse Klein was trembling. Sobbing. Pleading quietly, a prayer to God. A fine act.

"Colonel, I've found one of the spies," he said, gasping for breath. Felt like he'd run a marathon. Why was he out of breath? All he'd done was tackle a spy, and she hadn't even resisted. In his mouth, he tasted blood. Checked his gum with his tongue. Bleeding. Blood pressure too high, probably. Too much exertion. But he could fix that later. Right now, he had a spy to interrogate.

"Sergeant, let the nurse go," Phillips instructed.

"I will. But first, I want her to tell you herself exactly what she is." He tightened his arm against her chest, drawing another sob from her lips. "Go on, tell him."

"I'm just a nurse," she cried. "Just a nurse. Please, Sergeant Barnes, I just want to help you."

He felt his lips curl back up into a snarl. She was going to lie and lie until everybody believed her over him. He should'a cut out her tongue to begin with. Got a written confession from her.

"Sergeant," said Agent Carter. He looked up into her face and found her brown eyes focused on him. As focused as the pistol she had pointing at his head. "Let Audrey go, or I will shoot you."

He realised, then, that he'd got it all wrong. It really _had_ been Carter all along. And she'd somehow managed to frame Nurse Klein for everything she'd done. But it wasn't too late. He could let Nurse Klein go, and then the colonel would listen to him when Bucky told him all about Carter, and how she'd set up a nurse to take the fall.

He slackened his grip, and Nurse Klein almost sank to the floor in relief. _Thud thud._ He transferred his gaze to Agent Carter as Nurse Klein scurried towards Colonel Phillips. _Thud thud._

"Colonel, you have to listen to me," he said. "I know what's happening here."

"Son, put the knife down and we'll talk about it," said Phillips. One of his arms was wrapped protectively around the sobbing Nurse Klein. Guilt stabbed at Bucky's stomach. He'd done that. He'd got it wrong, and nearly hurt an innocent woman. But at least now, he knew who the guilty party was. Now, he didn't need the knife.

He tossed it onto the ground in front of the colonel, who gave a quick nod. The two MPs rushed forward, shouldering their guns as they wrestled him to the floor. _Thud thud._ Instinct kicked in. Bucky flailed and fought and lashed out and growled incomprehensible words at the men trying to put his wrists in restraints. _Thud thud._ Another group of MPs arrived. _Thud thud._ Overwhelmed, weakened from his infection and his tooth extraction, he was finally overcome. As he looked up, he saw the colonel lead Nurse Klein away, and at that moment, he knew: Colonel Phillips wasn't going to listen to him anymore.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Agent Carter had been having a bad day even before she'd heard the terrified scream from the hospital tent. She'd thought that nothing could be worse than three lost hair pins, a broken shoe heel and a lipstick stain on her best white shirt. But she had been wrong. Those things were simple annoyances, compared to what had just happened in the hospital.

"Here you go, Audrey," she said, crouching down beside the seated woman to give her a cup of tea. It was milky, just like the tea Grandmother used to be given, to calm her down during one of her episodes. Colonel Phillips had very wisely brought Nurse Klein into the command tent, away from the hospital. Away from Sergeant Barnes.

A shiver stole over Agent Carter as she recalled the feral look in the sergeant's eyes. The way he'd stared at her… it was as if he was seeing something for the first time. No man had ever looked at her like that before. No woman, either. She hadn't imagined such hatred was possible in the world. Clearly, she had been wrong again.

"I—I don't know what happened," Audrey said between hiccoughs. "One minute he was fine, asking to go back to his barracks…" a smile tugged briefly at her lips, "…asking for a cup of coffee and a cookie. The next minute, he had the scalpel and just lunged for me. It was like he was a completely different person. The Sergeant Barnes I know would never do anything like that."

 _But you don_ _'t really know him, Audrey,_ Peggy thought to her. _None of us do._

She looked up as two pairs of footsteps approached and two shadows fell across the open flap of the command tent. Sergeant Wells and Corporal Ferguson looked a little confused about being summoned to the tent, and when Corporal Ferguson saw Nurse Klein's puffy, tear-stained face, his eyes widened and his hands twitched by his side, as if he wanted to reach out for the woman right there and then. Instead, he saluted along with Sergeant Wells, and stood to attention.

"Sergeant, Corporal," said Colonel Phillips, stepping forward to address them. "At ease." They relaxed by a small measure, and Corporal Ferguson's eyes darted immediately back down to Nurse Klein. "There has been an incident. Sergeant Barnes attacked Nurse Klein with a medical scalpel in the hospital tent."

"What?!" Corporal Ferguson demanded. "I mean, err, sir."

"What happened?" Sergeant Wells reiterated.

"That's what we're trying to work out," Phillips sighed. Just then, Doctor Peacock arrived, and stood silently nearby while the colonel questioned the men. "Have you noticed Sergeant Barnes displaying any odd behaviour, of late?"

"Only since his toothache started. Though technically, only after he claimed to have overheard people speaking German during his first night in the hospital."

"When you first brought him to me," Doctor Peacock spoke up, "you mentioned he said something about going to see a wizard..?"

Sergeant Wells gave the doctor a long, humourless stare. "That was actually a joke."

"Can you think of anything Sergeant Barnes may have done?" Colonel Phillips continued. "Anything he might have been involved in? Anything that might have exposed him to any mind-altering substances?"

"It may be something he imbibed, ingested, inhaled, or otherwise consumed in some form," the doctor added helpfully.

"Nothing, sir," said Sergeant Wells. "He ate what we ate, drank what we drank, and didn't consume anything that didn't come from a mess serving counter or his ration kit."

"What about your last mission?" Phillips pushed. Peggy could see the desperation etched onto his face, though it was doubtful anybody else could have read it there. This new situation was grim, and straining him badly. The colonel couldn't afford for his troops to start losing their minds. Not out here. "Could he have come into contact with something in the communications bunker?"

"Nothing I'm aware of. We went in, shot Nazis and secured the facility. The only time we split up was when I was dragging bodies, and he went to disarm the MG. Apart from that, we weren't out of sight of each other for more than a few seconds."

"What about that gas?" Corporal Ferguson suggested. "You know, the gas Mr. Stark made, to stop you talking?"

"I was exposed to that gas too, Gusty, and I'm not crazy." Sergeant Wells glared at the corporal. "I'm _not._ " He looked up to Colonel Phillips again, his blue eyes full of concern. "Whatever's caused him to behave like this, I don't think it was something from the mission, sir. He was fine until he was admitted to the hospital."

Doctor Peacock took off his spectacles and gave them a quick wipe with his coat sleeve as he cleared his throat.

"Sergeant, if you're suggesting that my staff had anything to do with—"

"All I'm _suggesting_ , Doctor," Sergeant Wells interrupted sharply, "is that Barnes was himself right up until he started treatment for his sore tooth. _Something_ put him on edge and made him paranoid. Usually he's the voice of reason. God knows, he's tried to shoot down my paranoid theories often enough. And now, if he's attacked Nurse Klein, then he's definitely not acting like himself."

"Thank you, Sergeant," said Colonel Phillips. "If you think of anything else that might be pertinent, don't keep it to yourself."

"Yessir. Doc, can I see him?"

"I suppose it can't do any harm to have him see a friendly face," Doctor Peacock agreed. "We've restrained Sergeant Barnes in the hospital tent, but if he continues to be aggressive, we may eventually have to move him to more secure facility."

"You mean jail." The look in Sergeant Wells' eyes turned momentarily murderous. "You wanna put a sick man in jail?"

"Nobody's suggesting that, Sergeant," Phillips said quickly. "I hope that Doctor Peacock and his staff can help Sergeant Barnes before his condition becomes any worse. Now, you're dismissed. You too, Corporal Ferguson."

Sergeant Wells saluted and about-faced, but Peggy could tell Corporal Ferguson didn't want to leave. His salute was so sloppy that it never would have passed basic training, and his gaze lingered over the hiccoughing nurse.

"Colonel," Peggy spoke up, "perhaps if Corporal Ferguson isn't busy, he could escort Nurse Klein back to the women's tent. I'm sure she'd feel more at ease with a man to escort her."

From Colonel Phillips she received a quick nod; from Corporal Ferguson, a grateful smile. He helped Audrey up, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders as he led her out of the tent, the cup of milky tea still clutched in her hands.

"Doctor," Phillips snapped, and the man very nearly jumped out of his skin. "I want to know what's happened to Sergeant Barnes, and I want to know it an hour ago. I particularly want to know how likely this thing is to spread. The last thing we need out here is a full-blown epidemic on our hands."

"Of course, Colonel," the doctor said. "But finding what's wrong with the sergeant will take time, and curing him, if there even _is_ a cure—"

"I don't want to hear 'if' or 'but', Doctor. Find out what's wrong with him, and find a cure. Ask Stark to help. Maybe he can speed up the process."

"Err, yes, Colonel. I'll go speak to him right away."

The doctor left, and Peggy was left alone with the colonel. He grumbled like a bear with a toothache, and finally relaxed enough to sink down into one of the flimsy collapsible camp chairs. His eyes, though, were anything but relaxed, and they jumped up immediately to Peggy's face.

"Did you find anything from your questioning of the men on sentry duty the other night?"

"Nobody heard or saw anything, sir," she said. A big fat waste of time was what that particular exercise had been. "Do you believe Sergeant Barnes? About hearing people speaking German, I mean?"

"I'll be damned if I know what I believe anymore," her SO sighed. "But _something_ happened to that man, and I can't decide whether hallucination is the best case scenario, or the worst."

"I'll keep looking," she said. Another big fat waste of time. But it was better than doing nothing. Better than waiting for Sergeant Barnes to get worse.

"Very good. Dismissed, Agent."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

His heart had changed. An hour ago, he'd known it. The encouraging _thud thud. Thud thud._

Now, it was different. Faster. Irregular. _Thud. Thud. Thud thud thud. Thud. Thud thud._ Like it couldn't make up its mind. Did a heart have a mind? If so, his heart was currently crazy. A good job, then, that his real mind was sane.

He could hear more clearly in the silence. The whispers. Voices speaking German, just on the edge of his hearing. From his bed, he could see the shadows of the two MPs stationed outside the hospital door flap. Couldn't see their mouths moving, but that didn't mean they weren't whispering. Just that they were doing it so he couldn't see.

Another shadow joined them, mumbled words he was too slow to catch because he was too busy trying to listen to the beating of his heart. Trying to figure out what it was telling him now.

The shadow grew larger as the person stepped through the door. A familiar face greeted him, though it lacked any semblance of a smile.

"Wells," Bucky croaked through his sandpaper throat and desert-dry mouth. "'Bout time you showed up. Help me out of these." He glanced to his wrists, which had been lashed down to the bed on which he lay. His ankles were similarly bound. "I think I've ruled out Nurse Klein."

"They say you nearly hurt her," Wells said, as he brought a chair to the side of the bed and sat down just a foot or two away. Bucky didn't like the look in his eyes. Silently accusing. That's what they were.

"Nearly," he agreed. "But not quite." _Thud thud thud. Thud. Thud thud. Thud._ What the hell was his heartbeat telling him? "How did your investigation of the chaplain go?"

"Terrible."

"He wouldn't tell you anything?"

"No. He told me _everything_. I can now recite his family history for at least six generations. None of it seems conducive to German spies. Sorry, pal."

He shrugged, or tried to. Hard to shrug with your arms tied down. "Two down… How many people are in this camp, anyway?"

Wells ignored the question. Leant forward, to fix Bucky with his gaze.

"How are you doing? _Really_?"

"I'm fine. Really. My jaw isn't even hurting anymore." _Thud. Thud thud._ "I just gotta get out of here. Apologise to Nurse Klein, and find those damn spies. Will you please untie me?"

"Sorry, Barnes, but I don't think letting you out is such a good idea. Not while you're sick."

"I'm not sick!" he insisted as the sweat on his forehead coalesced into a bead and began trickling down his temple. It was too damn hot. They were trying to kill him. This was torture. Like being staked out beneath the burning sun, only slower. More agonising. He was burning alive from the inside out. And nobody cared. They just pretended to. "If you don't let me out of here, I'll die," he insisted. Wells said nothing, just watched him sadly. "They're trying to poison me. Just like they're trying to starve you. Right?" Nada. He barely even blinked. "C'mon, Wells, let me out."

"I can't. Sorry, pal. You're better off here, where we can keep an eye on you."

He narrowed his eyes at the man he thought had been his friend. "It's you, isn't it? You're the other spy. You and Carter. That's why you're always pretending to fight. Why she pretends she doesn't like you. It's to throw everyone off your scent. Well, I'm onto you. And when I get out of here, you're going to regret everything you've done to me, and all those people you helped to kill. Tipper, and Danzig, and Nestor—"

"Dammit, Barnes!" Wells hissed, blue eyes flashing with anger. "Listen to yourself! Tipper stepped on a mine. Danzig was shot by an unmanned machine-gun. Nestor was _driving_ the damn jeep that very nearly killed me and Carrot. You _know_ all of this. It's not some massive conspiracy, it's just war, and people die. It's sad, and tragic, but that's life. If you weren't so sick, you'd understand that."

"That's just what a Nazi spy would say."

Wells sighed and stood up. "I'm going now. I don't know what I can do to help you, but sitting in here isn't helping at all. Maybe I can help Stark figure out what's affecting you like this."

"You can't trust Stark!" he yelled at the departing back of Wells. "I think he's selling weapons to the Japs!"

But Wells was gone. Probably to report back to his Führer how the poisoning of Bucky Barnes was going. But that didn't matter. He was restrained for now, but he wouldn't be restrained forever. The flimsy lengths of cloth had nothing on the Biggs leather belt restraints. Already he could feel the one around his right wrist loosening with the flex and torsion of his hand. A smile graced his lips as he thought of freedom. He'd finally figured out what his heartbeat was saying.

 _Thud. Thud thud. Thud thud thud._

 _Escape. Find help. Kill the spies._

He knew just who to turn to for help doing that.


	37. Family

We Were Soldiers

 _37\. Family_

 _CRACK!_

The loud report of a firing rifle tore Peggy's mind from a dream of her childhood. As memories of Michael slid away, she reached for her uniform and was half dressed before the rest of the women had even fully woken.

"What's goin' on, Peg?" Marielle yawned as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Meanwhile, Nurse Madeley was reaching for her uniform; she obviously knew what gunfire this late at night might mean.

"I don't know," Peggy replied. She pulled on her boots and fastened them by the dim light of the oil lamp. Dressing with speed was something she could do in the dark. She'd practised a thousand times or more. _Always be prepared._ "Get to your stations, and don't leave the hospital unless somebody sends for you," she instructed.

She grabbed her pistol and her jacket, and left them to do their job. Just as she had to do hers.

As soon as she stepped outside the tent, her eyes were scanning the camp, searching for signs of a fight. There were none. That was good. If enemy troops were attacking, there would have been more shots fired by now. Alarms would have been sounding. Men would have been scrambling for weapons. All around the camp, lights were coming on, but there was no alarm. No panicked cry for help.

She moved with a confidence borne of experience, her feet carrying her towards the command tent. _If this is some bloody misfire, whoever fired the shot is going to get the sharp end of my boot._ There could be few other reasons for a single shot fired.

At the command tent, she found bedlam. Colonel Phillips was awake and alert, one of the sentries from the foxhole already offering a report. Colonel Hawkswell was only half dressed, and looked half asleep to match. Captains of the 69th and 370th appeared just after Peggy arrived, and a moment later, a runner brought Sergeant Wells, who'd managed a better state of dress than Colonel Hawkswell. As they all descended on the tent, she picked up part of the conversation.

"—we only got a brief glimpse of him, sir. Thought he was an enemy soldier making off with our weapons. I heard a rumour that there's German spies in the camp, sir. I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't even come close to what you'll be tomorrow, Private," Phillips barked at him. The man visibly wilted. "Agent Carter! Good. We have a problem. It seems Sergeant Barnes has somehow slipped his restraints and escaped from the camp. He took one of the SSR-01 rifles with him." His steely gaze swung swiftly to Sergeant Wells, who was trying to button up his jacket in the semi-darkness. He didn't seem to realise he'd buttoned it lopsided. "How the hell did he get away with that rifle, Sergeant?"

Unlike the Private, Sergeant Wells didn't wilt as he responded.

"He'd given his rifle to Stark for servicing, since we didn't need it on the last mission. I guess he must've snuck into Stark's tent and retrieved it. Sir, if you're sending a search party, I'd like to join it."

"And I'd like to be sipping daiquiris on a beach in Hawaii," Phillips shot back. "We don't always get what we want." He looked around at the assembled men. "Sergeant Barnes is on the run. He's armed, and he's dangerous. God only know what he'll do if he gets to a town or village. Agent Carter will lead a team to recapture him. That team will consist of—"

"Me," Sergeant Wells interrupted. He stepped forward, oblivious to the thunderheads growing on Phillips' face. Or perhaps simply uncaring of the brewing storm. "Sir, if you send a team of armed men to try and bring Barnes back, all you're going to end up with is a lot of dead men. Let me go unarmed, alone. Or at most, with Agent Carter. I think I can talk him down."

"And if you're wrong?"

"Then you'll still have men to send."

Peggy held her breath at the standoff. Sergeant Wells, she was sure, was not going to back down. If the colonel didn't let him go, he would probably try to go anyway. They'd end up with a second man restrained, just to prevent him from running off after the first.

"We have news!" a new voice cried. Howard appeared, dressed in his multi-stained lab coat, with Dr. Peacock in tow. The latter looked exhausted; spending any amount of time around Howard tended to do that to a person. "And it's not good news, I'm afraid."

"Just spit it out," Phillips ordered. Peggy could read his anxiety like an open book. With every moment they delayed, Sergeant Barnes was getting further away. If they didn't set off soon, they might not catch him.

"There is a foreign compound in the blood sample we took from Sergeant… what's his name?"

"Barnes," sighed Sergeant Wells.

"Right. The compound is very complex, but as it breaks down it produces a psychotropic effect on the mind. Audio and visual hallucinations, vivid colours, synesthesia… the effects probably vary from person to person. It would certainly explain why he thought he heard people speaking German, at least."

"Can you cure it?" Phillips asked.

"Yes, I believe so."

"And how is that _not_ good news?" Sergeant Wells prompted.

"Because, Sergeant… Sergeant," Howard continued, "a second, unpleasant side-effect of this compound's breakdown is a trigger of the adrenal gland. It basically puts the body into an extreme fight-or-flight response. Adrenaline is released, heart rate goes up… but that trigger doesn't switch off. Adrenaline continues to be released, in larger and larger doses. Heart rate continues to rise. Strength increases, along with aggression. That's probably why he attacked the nurse in the hospital ward. Paranoia alone wasn't enough to tip him over the edge, but the massive dose of adrenaline? Yeah, that'd do it."

"What are the long term repercussions for his health?" Peggy spoke up. Almost everybody turned to look at her, as if they'd forgotten she was there. Which was just bloody typical, because most of the time, she couldn't get men to _stop_ paying attention to her.

"Well, if he wants to continue living, not very good," Howard said. Not for the first time, his blasé attitude stoked her inner fire of annoyance. To Howard, live or die, it was all one. "Simply put, the body can't sustain that sort of adrenaline level for very long. The stress is too great. Organs start to fail. The brain begins to shut down. His heart will probably be the first to go. The strongest muscle in the body can be remarkably fragile under stress."

"So you're telling me he's a dead man walking if we don't get him back here in time to be treated?" Colonel Phillips asked. Peggy could see what he was thinking. That maybe it would be best to just let him go. Save the lives of whatever men he would've sent after the sergeant. It was cold, but it was a tactically sound choice… if only he could be sure Sergeant Barnes would reach the point of no return _before_ reaching a town.

"It may already be too late," Howard said. "But I have created this, to buy him some extra time." From his pocket he drew a long metal cylinder with a coat of plastic around the head. "It's basically a quick-and-dirty syringe. All you do is jab this end into the thigh muscle—hard—and a needle shoots out, releasing… well, you don't need to know the scientific term. It will temporarily suspend adrenal activity. Give the vital organs a chance to recover. He'll still be paranoid, but without adrenaline, he'll be weak. Hopefully not too weak to make it back. This will buy him a few hours. By the time you get him back here… _if_ you get him back here… I should be able to neutralise the compound that's causing all this havoc."

"Sir, I volunteer to go after Sergeant Barnes," Sergeant Wells said immediately.

"Of course you do," Phillips sighed. "Fine. Carter, you'll go too."

"Yes, sir," she agreed. Howard handed the adrenaline suppressor to Sergeant Wells, who stashed it his jacket pocket.

"Private, go and show Sergeant Wells the direction you saw Sergeant Barnes run off in," said Phillips. "Stark, go work on that cure." _Just in case more men come down with whatever this is,_ he didn't say. Didn't have to. "The rest of you, go stand your men down and assure them the camp is not under attack. Colonel Hawkswell, would you give me a moment alone with Agent Carter?"

Peggy stood a little straighter as the tide of men parted around her. As soon as they were alone, Phillips wasted no time on pleasantries.

"Agent, I don't have to tell you what's at stake," he said, pacing the tent. Colonel Phillips pacing was never a good sign. He only paced when things were truly bad. "With Sergeant Barnes in his present frame of mind, there's no telling what he'll do if he reaches a town. I'm not just talking about blowing our cover and destroying any chance we have to carry out our mission covertly; I'm talking about collateral damage. We don't need that kind of exposure. It would be a PR nightmare. If Sergeant Wells can't convince Barnes to stand down, you're authorised to do whatever it takes to protect the mission and the civilians of this country. Understood?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Yes, sir." It was a hard call to make for any CO, and whilst a large part of her hated that she had to even consider shooting one of their own, a smaller part was secretly pleased that Colonel Phillips trusted her with such an important and grave task. If he'd thought Sergeant Wells was capable of carrying out the order, he wouldn't be giving it to Peggy.

But she hoped desperately that it wouldn't come to that.

"Good. Keep an eye on Sergeant Wells, too. Until we know how Sergeant Barnes got sick, we can't rule out some sort of transmittable infection. And judging by how fast Barnes went downhill, if others have the same compound in their blood, we need to get them treated as quickly as possible."

"I understand."

"Than get going, Agent. Your target has a head start, and something tells me he won't be taking a pleasant stroll."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

She caught up with Sergeant Wells not far from the sentry foxholes. He'd set a ground-eating trot that could be kept up for hours, and was scanning the ground as he jogged.

"If you're looking for footprints, you won't find any," she told him as she kept pace, glad that she'd had the presence of mind to dress in her pants, rather than her skirt, when she'd heard gunfire. "The ground is too hard and dry."

"I'm not looking for footprints. I'm looking for blood. That idiot private shot at Barnes. He may have been hit."

She didn't speak her thoughts aloud. That it might be better if Sergeant Barnes had been shot. That it might slow him down. Give them a better chance of catching him. But then, there was another side to that. An animal fought more viciously when it was wounded. Became more dangerous, if it was in pain.

Peggy saw no sign of blood on the ground, but it was hard to see anything with only the moon to light the darkness. The night air was still, and even the insects were silent, as if holding their breath for the outcome of the chase.

Through some probable act of divine providence, Sergeant Wells managed to stay quiet as they jogged through the sparse forest. When Peggy glanced at his face, all harsh planes and shadows in the silvery moonlight, it seemed focused, grim. Whatever was going through his mind, she suspected it wasn't pleasant.

"I wish you hadn't brought that," he said, after ten minutes of jogging. His gaze danced down to her hip, where her pistol was securely holstered.

"It may be necessary to use it. Given Sergeant Barnes' recent behaviour and level of aggression, talking may accomplish nothing."

"Agent Carter, I was raised to be respectful to dames, and I'd never lift a hand in anger to a woman. But if your fingers so much as even brush against that gun, I swear, I will take it off you and shoot you with it."

She'd heard about Sergeant Wells' reputation, but right now, hearing his tone of voice, seeing the cold, silvery gleam in his eyes, she didn't think he was bullshitting. Of course, he didn't understand how serious the situation was. He probably hadn't even considered how much damage Sergeant Barnes could do with that damned rifle.

"This mission is bigger than one man, Sergeant," she said, suspecting her logic—Phillips' logic—would fall on deaf ears. Still, she could lead Sergeant Wells to water. Perhaps he might surprise her, and choose to drink.

"You got a brother, Agent Carter?"

The question came so out of the blue that Peggy's feet faltered. She increased her pace to catch up again.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Even to her own ears, her question was sharp. She couldn't help it. Even though she'd come to accept the loss of Michael, thoughts of him still hurt. She suspected they always would.

"Just wondering."

"I did have," she admitted. "Michael." _A flash of laughing brown eyes and a cheeky smile, even when he_ _'d been an adult._ "He died early in the war."

Sergeant Wells slowed to a walk, giving them a breather. His jacket was still comically skewed, but there was nothing comical about the expression on his face.

"What if it was your brother out there? Sick. Confused. Afraid. Seeing enemies everywhere. Trying to get away from what he thought was a threat. Would you still be willing to use that gun if it were Michael, and not Barnes, who needed help? Would the mission still be 'bigger than one man' if that man was your brother?"

"It's not the same at all. For a start, Sergeant Barnes isn't your brother."

Sergeant Wells let out a dry, darkly humourous laugh as he looked at her. "Boy, you really don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?" she snapped. She should've known this was a bad idea. Should have insisted on coming after Sergeant Barnes alone.

"Being a soldier," he said. "What it's all about. What it means to be a part of something bigger. Family isn't something that's restricted by ties of blood. You know where I learned that? From the man you're willing to shoot. You wonder why you can't get any respect from the troops? Why they can't see you as anything but a pretty doll in a soldier's uniform? It's because of stuff like this. Because every soldier understands without needing to be told that you look out for your family. You don't hurt your brothers, and you never leave a man behind. The mission is never more important than the men, because without the men, there _is_ no mission."

She bit back a scathing response to the 'pretty doll' comment. "And if Sergeant Barnes is so far gone that he shoots you with that sniper rifle?"

"I'm hoping there's enough of my friend left under the paranoia that he won't do that. But if not… at least he'll still be alive to regret it, when Stark fixes him," he glared.

He jogged on again before Peggy could say anything else, and she let out a quiet vexed hiss as she followed. He probably thought his sentiment about sacrifice and family was noble, but Peggy had listened to soldiers talk often enough to know one thing; they held a childish view of war. They signed up with the belief that war was somehow glorious, that they were fighting a good fight, and fighting it with men who shared their beliefs. In boot camp they were taught to work together, and never adequately prepared for the reality of war; that even when working together, they would inevitably be pulled apart.

She took no enjoyment from the idea of shooting a man, especially one on her side; one who didn't deserve it. But she'd been doing this long enough to know that 'save every man' was a morality that would eventually cost them the war. Not every man could be saved. She'd seen good men die; some had been close to her. And she was as willing to sacrifice her own life as she was the life of anybody else. If the soldiers couldn't respect her because she could see the bigger picture… well, that was their problem, not hers.

"Do you have any insights into where Sergeant Barnes might be going?" she asked, her breath a steady pant as she jogged through the warm darkness of the night. "You are his friend, after all."

"Not a clue," he said, managing a small shrug even as he ran. "For all I know, he's just looking for someone who'll believe hi—"

He stopped dead, and Peggy had to slam on the brakes to prevent herself running right into him. Immediately her eyes went forward, to the trees ahead.

"What is it?" she whispered. "Did you see something?"

"Huh? Oh. No. I was just thinking about something Barnes said, when he first got sick. He said he wished his best friend from back home was here. That Steve would believe him."

 _Steve?_

Her face must have shown some measure of surprise. "That mean something to you?" he asked, as thoughts of Steve Rogers ran across her mind.

She shook her head. It was a common name. Just a coincidence. She was fairly sure Steve Rogers wouldn't be friends with somebody as annoyingly irreverent as Sergeant Barnes. "You think he's trying to find his friend?"

"I think he's trying to get home."

"But we're in France!"

"He may not fully realise that," said Sergeant Wells. "If what Stark said about hallucinations is correct, then who knows what he's thinking or seeing?"

She pursed her lips in thought. If that was true, if Sergeant Barnes really was trying to return home, Colonel Phillips could order teams of men to set up checkpoints along the road to all major towns and cities. Monitor the roads to any nearby ports. If Sergeant Barnes wanted to go home, he'd have to show himself eventually. If he didn't die first.

"Perhaps—"

Her words were cut off something whizzed past her face so fast that she only felt it passing by the swirling movement of air caressing her cheek. The trunk of a tree behind her made a 'plink' sound as a bullet lodged itself deep in the trunk. Open mouthed, she stared at the hole in the wood as the blood drained from her face.

"That was a warning shot." There was excitement in Sergeant Wells' voice when he spoke. He seemed not to care that the bullet had missed her head by a matter of centimetres.

When Peggy finally found her voice, it came out in a whisper. Not that it mattered how loudly she spoke; she knew how far a person could see with that SSR-01. Sergeant Barnes could be half a mile away, or more.

"What makes you think that?"

"Because if he wanted you dead, he wouldn't have aimed for the tree."

 _Aimed for the tree!_ As if he hadn't just missed her by two inches!

"I'm going on," Sergeant Wells said. "I suggest you go back, for your own protection."

"How very chivalrous of you," she chided. And she certainly would not go back. It wasn't as if she hadn't been shot at before, and she'd been in more difficult situations than this. "But I came to bring Sergeant Barnes back to camp, and I'm not leaving until my mission's complete."

"Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you. And remember what I said about that gun of yours. You try to shoot my friend, and he won't be the one you have to worry about."

She bit back the words _'I do not take kindly to threats,'_ mostly because if there was ever a time for tactical silence, this was it. The situation was too delicate to risk an argument with the company's most irritating sergeant. And she hadn't failed to notice that _she_ was the one Sergeant Barnes had aimed his 'warning shot' at.

As Sergeant Wells set off walking, she followed cautiously. Every once in a while he called out, _"Barnes!"_ and _"Come out!"_ There was no way of knowing whether Sergeant Barnes was even close enough to hear the calls, but that didn't stop Sergeant Wells from trying. Every so often he'd intersperse his calls with something different. Once, it was, _"Hey, Dorothy, this isn't the way to Oz,"_ and another time, _"C'mon, pal. We're late for a very important date."_

Peggy would be very surprised if Sergeant Barnes wasn't two miles away by now, completely oblivious to Sergeant Wells' inanity.

A rustle of low bushes ahead stopped Peggy dead in her tracks, every muscle frozen still. A few feet in front of her, Sergeant Wells was similarly immobile, and as they watched, a figure emerged from the trees. Peggy's mouth went dry. Sergeant Barnes wasn't the only reason she'd brought her pistol; there might be others out here. German patrols, or French Resistance who adopted a 'shoot first' policy when it came to strangers tramping through their country.

When the figure stepped from the shadows enough to be illuminated by the silver moonlight, a giddy wave of relief washed over her mind. It was Sergeant Barnes… and he looked terrible. Pale-faced, skin clammy, hair a shade darker where sweat soaked it through. In his hands he held his rifle, but she could see his muscles trembling. For a moment, her heart went out to him. Then she saw the feral, murderous gleam in his eyes, and she swiftly retracted her previous feelings of sympathy.

"What are you doing out here?" Sergeant Barnes asked. His voice was hoarse, as if it pained him to talk. As if he'd gone for so long without a drink that his throat had lost all moisture. "Meeting up with your Nazi buddies?"

"We're just looking for you, pal," said Sergeant Wells. He had both hands up, showing he was unarmed. Peggy wished she could ape him, but every instinct in her body told her to keep her hands by her side. In easy reach of her gun. "We're worried about you."

"You should be more worried about her," Sergeant Barnes said, jabbing his rifle in Peggy's direction. She swallowed the lump in her throat. At this distance, his SSR-01 might be more of a liability than a help, but that didn't mean he couldn't kill her with it. Just that he'd be shooting blind. "She's a German spy."

"She's worried about you too, Barnes," said Sergeant Wells. His voice was low and quiet, pitched to soothe. Peggy wasn't sure anything was capable of soothing Sergeant Barnes right now.

"She's trying to kill me. She brought a gun. She wants to shoot me."

"Maybe," Sergeant Wells agreed, and Peggy suddenly wished he was within kicking distance. What the hell was he doing, playing into Barnes' delusions like that?! "But you know I won't let her hurt you. Right?"

Barnes closed his eyes briefly, shook his head. "No. I barely know you!"

"Sure you do." Sergeant Wells took a step forward. Sergeant Barnes was so fixed on watching Peggy that he didn't notice the step. "What's my favourite breakfast food?"

There was a pause. Then, reluctantly, Sergeant Barnes said, "Fried eggs."

"And my favourite book?"

"A Tree Grows in Brooklyn."

"And what's my favourite atmospheric phenomenon?"

The silence that followed told Peggy that Sergeant Barnes knew the answer; he was just refusing to give it.

"See? You know more than you think," said Sergeant Wells, as he stole another unnoticed step. "Now, the thing is, you're sick. I know you don't think it, but you are. In my pocket I have something, some medicine that will make you feel better." _Yes!_ Peggy thought. _Get close enough to inject him with the serum_. "I'm going to put the medicine on the ground so you can pick it up and decide whether you want to use it." _No, you idiot, don_ _'t give him the bloody thing!_

Unfortunately, Sergeant Wells was not a mind reader. He couldn't hear her silent cursing. He took another couple of steps forward, so that he was within half a dozen feet of Sergeant Barnes, and took the injector from his pocket. Peggy hoped against hope that he'd take a lunge forward and use it on the sick sergeant… but he merely crouched down and placed it on the ground, whilst Barnes watched on, his rifle now trained on Sergeant Wells.

 _And there goes our only chance at saving his life,_ she silently lamented.

"Back up," said Sergeant Barnes. And when Sergeant Wells did, he made a quick grab for the injector, pocketing it without using it. "I don't trust her," he added, pointing the SSR-01 at Peggy's chest. "She's armed."

"What if I tied her up? Would that make you feel better?"

Peggy stared daggers at the back of Sergeant Wells' head. _Tied her up?_ What kind of game was he playing at? He couldn't tie her up. He just… he couldn't. That wasn't supposed to be how this mission went! At no point was she supposed to be tied up.

"Yeah." Sergeant Barnes stepped back a few paces and reached down to something in one of the bushes. It turned out to be a backpack. Clearly, the rifle was not the only thing he'd taken from Howard's tent before fleeing camp. He tossed the pack over. "There's rope in there."

Peggy continued glaring daggers as Sergeant Wells opened the pack and began rooting through it. Her fingers twitched several times as common sense told her to _go for the gun_ and even the playing field, in case Sergeant Barnes' madness was infectious and had already spread to the other man.

Sergeant Wells turned to her with a coil of rope in his hands, and he winked as he said, "C'mon Agent Carter, come and sit by this tree so I can tie you up."

She let her hands relax and stop twitching. This was all a ploy. He'd make it look like she'd been tied, to try and gain Sergeant Barnes' trust. To get close enough to get the rifle from him and use the injector on him. It wasn't how _she_ would have done things—she probably would have just shot him in the foot to incapacitate him—but if Sergeant Wells thought he could get closer this way, then she would make that sacrifice. Besides, part of her was secretly pleased that Sergeant Barnes thought she was the greater threat of the two.

Lowering herself to the ground, she sat with her back against the trunk of a tree, and waited while Sergeant Wells slipped behind her and 'tied' her hands around the trunk. He tied them quite firmly. More firmly than she was expecting. But that was okay. Any moment now, he'd slip a knife into her hands, so that she could work on freeing herself whilst he worked on getting closer to Sergeant Barnes.

She felt a hand at her hip, and then her gun was gone, taken from its holster before she could even object. As she opened her mouth, another glare of daggers prepared, Sergeant Wells took the clip out of the pistol, then released the round from the weapon's chamber. It landed with a metallic 'ping' and then rolled away, out of sight.

"What the hell are you doing, Sergeant Wells?" Peggy demanded. She pulled against the ropes around her wrists, but they held fast. Suddenly, all the misgivings she should have felt before came crashing in all at once.

Sergeant Wells merely pocketed the ammo clip and tossed the useless pistol on the ground beside her. Dismissing her entirely, he turned back to Sergeant Barnes.

"Mind if I come along for the ride?"

"What makes you think I'm going somewhere?" Sergeant Barnes countered.

"Why else would you run? I figure you're going to the same place everybody wants to go, whether they're soldiers in the army or dames in a Technicolor wonderland: home."

A fleetingly thoughtful expression played across Sergeant Barnes' face. Or perhaps it was a trick of the moonlight. He finally shouldered his gun, and said, "Okay. But I'm in a hurry. Don't slow me down."

They disappeared under the trees, where the light of the moon couldn't touch them, and for a long moment the only sound Peggy could hear was two pairs of footsteps growing fainter and fainter.

"Sergeant Wells!" she shouted at their retreating backs. "Come back here and untie me right this instant! That's an order, Sergeant!"

But her cries bore no fruit. The night air fell still again, and she was alone.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: Been a while since my last author note, I think, so I thought I'd drop a quick line here to let you know how this story's progressing. Just started writing Chapter 70 (woo!) with plenty of exciting stuff—or so I hope—between here and there. Glad to see folks enjoying the 'Bucky goes crazy' story arc so far. The next chapter will be up on Saturday (25th Feb). See you there!_


	38. A Matter of Trust

_Author_ _'s note: The theme song to this chapter is_ He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother _, by The Hollies. It would also make a great Bucky/Steve theme song. If you haven't heard it before, or even if you have, you should go pay a visit to Youtube._

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _38\. A Matter of Trust_

Bucky's head was aflame with thoughts which darted through his mind so fleetingly that they were gone before he could catch them. In his ears he heard whispers, but they were so quiet, so ubiquitous, that he couldn't make out the words, nor identify any single voice. To keep himself grounded, he focused on one thought.

 _Find Steve._

Steve would know what to do. He would help Bucky make things right. Together they could figure out who the real spies were. Bucky needed Steve's cool, logical head, because he himself had been poisoned, and so many innocents had been framed by the Nazis that he risked killing somebody who didn't deserve it.

 _Thud thud thud._

His heart had grown louder over the past hour or two, and the fire in his mind seemed to be spreading to the rest of his body. But that was okay, because Steve would know what to do about that as well. And best of all, Steve would believe him when nobody else did.

He tasted blood in his mouth. Had tasted blood since he'd left the camp. His gum was bleeding again. But that was normal. He was marching fast. Exerting himself. When blood pumped faster, it was under higher pressure. Only natural for the hole in his mouth to bleed a little. It would stop, soon enough.

Behind him, Wells came crashing loudly through the undergrowth. Why couldn't he be quiet? Didn't he understand that stealth was important right now? Only God knew how many Nazi troops were patrolling the countryside, waiting for their spies to report back about Bucky's progress.

Or… was that _why_ Wells was making so much noise? Was he trying to lead the Nazis straight to their position?

Bucky shook his head. Trying to figure things out was hard. His thoughts danced in circles, like young girls around a maypole. Like children in the schoolyard, singing _Ring around the roses_ and, _Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!_

 _Ashes._ Yes. That was how he felt. Like his mind was burning so hot it was turning to ashes. His body, too, was going that way. Legs that had moved easily were starting to grow heavy. Feet ached in his boots. His arms hung loosely by his sides, no longer free-swinging. Only the rifle slung across his back kept his spine straight. But Steve would make things right again.

He stumbled on a loose stone and caught himself against the trunk of a tree. Around him, the night air burned, a searing inferno. Taking several deep breaths, he gasped for something cooler, sweeter. Smoke; his lungs were full of smoke, like he'd been too long in a music hall, breathing in the fumes of other guys' cigars.

"You're starting to feel it, aren't you?" Wells asked. Bucky turned his aching head on his stiff neck, found his fellow sergeant watching him closely. There was something in his eyes… the look of a vulture watching its next meal slowly die. "Your body slowing down. Your heart racing like it wants to beat right out of your chest. Maybe your vision blurring around the edges."

"I'm fine," Bucky said. Or, he would be, if he could make out what those whispering voices were saying. Why couldn't they speak one at a time? He pushed himself from the comforting embrace of the tree and set off again. Each time he stopped, it was harder to get started. _Don_ _'t stop. Keep moving. Find Steve._

 _Thud thud thud thud thud._

Wells followed, his voice cutting through the infuriating whispers. "Stark told me that you've got something in your blood. Something that's making you see and hear things. Something that's making you feel angry."

Bucky nodded. He knew it. "Poison." Could feel it coursing through him. Probably made his gum bleed, too.

"Maybe. But that stuff in your blood… it's killing you. Too much adrenaline. Your body can't handle it. Stark said pretty soon, your organs will start to fail. That your body won't be able to handle much more before it switches off forever."

Stark _would_ say that—he was probably working with the Nazis.

"I'm fine," he insisted.

Wells took a few long steps forward, pushing past Bucky, almost knocking him over. He stopped right in front of him and planted his feet wide apart to bar the way.

"Barnes, stop," he hissed, his eyes angry. "You asked me not to lie to you, so why are you lying to yourself? You're not fine. Even you've gotta understand that. You're very far from _fine._ "

"I've been poisoned," he agreed. "Gotta find Steve. He can help me make this right."

"Steve isn't here." Wells' voice was harsh, angry. "Steve is back home, in America. You are in France. You're not gonna find him."

"I—"

"No." Scowling, Wells took a step forward. Bucky considered his rifle… but dragging it from his shoulder seemed like too much effort. Everything was burning, now, even his fingertips. "Listen to me. You're sick. What's inside you is killing you. Soon, real soon, you won't be able to go any further. If I wanted you dead, all I'd have to do is watch you keep walking. Because if you keep walking, that's what's gonna happen.

"But I don't want to see you die. I don't want to have to write a letter home to your family. I don't want to have to tell them that their son died not in a firefight, not because he was carrying out his duty, but because he got sick, and wouldn't let anybody help him. Because he was too goddamn stubborn and paranoid to drop his guard for a moment and let somebody else pick up the reins. Ever since you reported for duty you've been helping everyone else, even when they didn't always want your help. Now it's time to let _us_ help _you._ You may not want it, but you sure as hell need it. Let us help you. Let _me_ help you."

Bucky looked into Wells' face, tried to find answers in his eyes. But there were none. Just worry and fear. The guy really seemed to believe that Bucky wasn't gonna make it.

"Think about your family," Wells continued. "Close your eyes and picture the faces of your mom and dad. Go on." Bucky obeyed, because his eyes wanted to close anyway. Wanted to drift off to sleep. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he saw his folks. They were smiling at him. So proud that he'd signed up. Hiding well the fear that he might not come back.

"You see your parents?"

Bucky nodded.

"Now, picture your brother and sisters. See them as they were on the day you left. You're their big brother, and they need you to come back to them. So does Steve. He's back home, waiting for you, too. Who's gonna pull those bullies off him if you die out here?"

He felt tears of lava leak from beneath his eyes. They burned his eyelids, seared his cheeks.

 _Dying._ Wells was telling the truth. He could feel it. His body burning up from the inside out. Maybe it was because of poison. Maybe. Either way, it didn't matter. He was going to die out here, just like Steve's dad. And his folks would be heartbroken. Steve wouldn't have anyone to pull bullies off him. Who'd see off unsuitable suitors for Janet? Charlie didn't have the same flair for big-brothering as Bucky. Hadn't been doing it as long.

When he opened his eyes, reality came rushing back in. He didn't want to believe Wells, but he was too afraid not to. "I don't want to die," he whispered.

"You don't have to. That medicine I gave you can help. Give us a few hours to get you back to camp. Stark can treat you. But you're gonna have to trust me. Do you trust me?"

Bucky nodded. He didn't know who to trust. Didn't even know if he could trust himself anymore. He knew he could trust Steve, but Steve wasn't here. Wherever here was, it was Steve-less. Steve was like Bucky; a city-boy. He wouldn't be found in a bare forest like this. If he had to trust someone, it might as well be Wells. Better than trusting himself. He'd already messed things up so badly with Nurse Klein.

"Good. You still got that medicine injector?"

He nodded again. Used his free hand to reach into his jacket and pulled out the metal tube. Tried it ignore the way his hand shook. His whole arm shook. He could feel the burning spreading within him, an unstoppable wildfire that was eating him alive.

"All you gotta do is jab the plastic end against your thigh. It'll inject something into you which will make you feel better.

Bucky held it out. His hand tremored badly. "You."

Wells shook his head. "No. I want you to do it. You don't need me to save your life, Barnes. You can do that yourself. When Stark's cured you, I want you to be able to think back to this moment and know that you saved yourself. That even when you were dying, you didn't need anyone else to do that for you. And decades from now, when you're old and wrinkly with a few dozen grandkids, you can tell them about the guy who talked you into saving your own life when you were so sick you couldn't even think straight."

Hearing Wells say it like that made Bucky feel guilty. Wells made him sound strong, but he wasn't strong. He was weak, and afraid, and burning to death. What was in that cylinder might save him… or it might make him burn faster. His hand shook, fingers tightening reflexively around it. He licked his paper-dry lips.

"This… this will save me?"

"It will give you a chance," said Wells. And Bucky heard the words he _didn_ _'t_ say. That it wouldn't definitely save him. "All I know is, if you take that medicine now, you might die. If you wait much longer, you _will_ die. But either way, you won't be alone. I'll stay with you until you don't need me anymore."

He nodded. If Wells was willing to do that for him, Bucky could do no less. Mom and Dad needed their eldest son to come back from war. His brother and sisters needed their big brother. Steve needed him, to help out with those bullies. And back at camp, the hundred and fifty guys of the 107th needed him to keep fighting the good fight. To get them home.

He lifted his arm. Damn near killed him. The fires of hell seemed to burn in his muscles. _Don_ _'t do it!_ his mind screamed. _It_ _'s poison! He's trying to kill you!_ He closed his eyes. He was already poisoned. How much worse could it be, if this was more poison? _No, no, don_ _'t do it, don't trust him, he'll turn you over to the Nazis!_ But… Wells had tied up Agent Carter. Taken her gun off her. Why would he do that if he was going to betray Bucky?

His thoughts ran around and around as his body burned and his muscles weakened. He thought of Steve and those grandkids, and gritted his teeth. Quickly, before his courage could fail him, he brought his arm down. Let gravity help. The head of the cylinder banged heavily into his leg and he felt something sharp tear through his pants, pierce his muscle. He would've cried out in pain, but he was too exhausted to do even that.

Ice pooled in his leg, a cold numbness that spread upwards and outward, dousing the fire, shocking his mind, turning his muscles to jelly. His trembling legs gave way, and Wells caught him before he could hit the ground, lowering him down to rest with his back against a tree. As the ice spread into his chest, he heard his heartbeat grow quieter. Slower.

 _Thud thud thud thud. Thud thud. Thud. Thud thud._

The moisture on his skin seemed to cool with the ice that spread through him, and he shivered in his cold sweat. How had the burning night turned so chilly?

"I can give you a couple of minutes to adjust," Wells said, sinking down to the ground beside him. "But then we gotta go. Okay?"

Bucky nodded, too exhausted for words. His shivers subsided as his body ceased cooling, and for a brief moment he wished he was still burning hot. Now that everything was cooling, he could feel the aches that had been hidden from him before. Ache of his legs, of his arms, his ribs, his lungs, his heart, even his mind. He couldn't remember ever aching so badly before.

"Here, drink," said Wells. He pulled a flask from his belt and held it out.

Bucky jerked his head sharply away. "Poison."

"It's not poison. See?" Wells drank from it, and when Bucky still wasn't convinced, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and spilled water over it. The sight of the water ignited a deep thirst within him. Wells used the wet kerchief to dab at Bucky's forehead, bringing the blessed chill to his formerly burning skin. "Just water. Will you drink, now?"

When Bucky didn't object a second time, the flask was brought to his lips and he took several small sips before daring to try a deeper swig. Once he started, he couldn't stop; he drank so fast that water spilled down his chin.

"Take it easy," Wells instructed, stealing the canteen back before Bucky could drain it dry. "Save some for the hike back to camp."

For the first time in forever, Bucky could breathe easy without his lungs burning. He let the tree take his weight. Knew he was weak as a kitten; didn't care. He wasn't dying anymore. Wasn't burning alive. Was still poisoned, but he could deal with that in time. Years from now, this would make one hell of a story to tell.

"Do you really think I'll have those grandkids?" he asked.

"Yeah." Wells plucked the SSR-01 from his shoulder and, for some reason, emptied the ammo from it. Then he sat back down beside Bucky, just far enough that he was near without being _too near_. "I reckon you'll have loads of kids. Eight or ten, at least. Way more than Carrot. And you'll have to call one of them Danny, because it's a good name, very traditional, and a great tribute to me. Those kids'll have four of five each, and you'll be the grandpa of your own entire clan."

Bucky nodded along to Wells' vision of the future. Eight or ten kids. Sure, he could do that. Needed a wife, first, but his mom probably had a whole bunch of girls lined up for when he returned. Steve would be there, too. Uncle Steve. Maybe with a wife of his own. Steve didn't have much luck with dames, but Bucky's mom could probably find him one. A nice, sweet girl like Nurse Klein, who didn't care if a guy was kinda scrawny. They could take their kids to the park every weekend, teach 'em to play ball. Maybe get 'em a dog, or two.

"You ready to make tracks?" Wells asked.

"Can't I just stay here and play with my kids?"

"Sorry pal, but those kids need you to win a war first. Come on, let me help you to your feet."

Somehow, Wells managed to haul him upright. His legs still felt like jelly, but he tried his best to stand without wobbling. The simple act of standing was exhausting.

"You can lean on me," Wells said, "and use this as a walking stick." He handed over the empty SSR-01.

Bucky quickly shook his head. "Stark'll kill me."

"Then he and Carter can fight over who gets to kill you first. C'mon, don't be stubborn. We can always get more guns, but we can't get any more you."

"No more me," he mumbled. He didn't like the sound of that.

With the butt of the SSR-01's stock in the pit of his right arm, and his left arm hooked around Wells' shoulders so the guy could support some of his weight, they set off back the way they'd come, the moonlight guiding their way. As they walked, Bucky tried to keep his shivering minimal. He wasn't cold, but for the first time in his life, his body had failed him. For the first time, he knew what it meant to be weak, and frail, to be reliant on others, and he didn't like it one bit.

Was this how Steve had always felt? There were times, after particularly nasty fights in the back alleys of Brooklyn, when Bucky had practically had to carry Steve home, battered, bleeding and bruised. Too broken and exhausted to stand under his own steam. The mental image of their roles now switched brought a bubble of laughter to his lips.

"I'm Steve," he said. "And you're me. But just this one time. The rest of the time, I'm me."

"Fine by me," Wells replied. "I can be you, just this one time. As long as it's not all the time. Dames like me better."

He scoffed. Very nearly lost his footing because of it. "Bullshit."

"It's true." Wells aimed a grin at him. "When we get back to where I left Agent Carter, ask her who she'd rather punch."

"You tied her up."

"You shot at her."

"Oh yeah." He'd forgotten about that. And it had just been a warning shot, anyway. He still wasn't sure about her spy status. All signs pointed to her secretly being a Nazi, but they'd already framed Nurse Klein, so maybe Carter wasn't guilty after all. He'd let Phillips worry about that.

Thoughts that had once burned and raced now felt sluggish in his mind, like birds in a mid-winter torpor. His eyes wanted to close, and rest, but he couldn't rest while he was on his feet. Maybe he'd catch forty winks the next time they stopped for a drink. Or he'd catch twenty. Hell, he'd settle for ten.

"You still awake, pal?" Wells asked.

"Mm."

"Tell me about this friend you have back home. Steve. What's he like?"

"He's a stubborn S.O.B.," Bucky grunted. "You remind me of him, sometimes."

"Are you two close?"

Nod. "Like brothers." In some ways, closer than brothers. There were things he could talk about with Steve, that he couldn't with Charlie. His hopes, and what few fears he ever had, were shared most often with his best friend.

"It must be nice to have someone like that," Wells mused.

"You have brothers."

"We're not that close. Not like you and your pal. I mean, I'd never go looking for my brothers in the middle of Nazi-controlled France."

Bucky snorted. " _South_ of Nazi-controlled France." Had he really gone looking for Steve? It had seemed so sensible at the time. It stood to reason that since Steve would believe him, Steve ought to be able to help him sort out his spy problem. Of course, Steve was back home. In America. Safe and sound. Drawing his illustrations, getting into fights without his best buddy to pull off the bullies, going to the cemetery to lay a bunch on his parents' graves…

"You must've got into some trouble together," Wells prompted, after a moment of silence.

"A bit."

"Tell me about some of it."

Bucky stumbled again, and managed to stay upright thanks to Wells and the SSR-01.

"Are you trying to distract me?" he asked.

"Yeah. You're getting kinda heavy. Feels like you're falling asleep on me. I don't think that's such a good idea. You need to stay awake."

"But I'm tired. Can't I just have a quick nap?" His head would feel less foggy after a short sleep. He was sure of it.

"No. I'm worried that if you go to sleep, you might not wake up. You've come this far. You can't give up now. So, tell me about Steve."

"Steve," Bucky sighed, "has the spirit of a bulldog in the body of a terrier. He thinks with his heart more often than his head, especially when he sees something he doesn't like. He has a way of mouthing off that gets him punched by guys who don't like to hear what he thinks of them."

"He ever punch back?"

"Tries." Bucky mentally chuckle over the memory of Steve's last stand, in the alley behind the cinema. The guy had been twice his size, but Steve had bounced to his feet like he had a piece of string attached to his back. When Steve said _I could do this all day,_ he really meant it. "Every time I see him punch, I'm worried he might break his wrists."

Bucky's leg's turned to jelly again. This time, it happened too fast for Wells to react. He didn't so much fall, as slump in a Bucky-shaped heap of exhaustion.

"I need a minute," he said, as sleep tried once more to steal over his eyes. "Just a minute."

"Alright," Wells agreed. And even in the pale moonlight, Bucky could tell the guy was worried. Could hear the tinge in his voice. Not the same sort of worried like being caught stealing Dugan's hat… a different kind of worried. One that was too serious for laughs and jokes.

Wells brought out his canteen. Gave Bucky another sip. It helped. The water was cool. Refreshing. It temporarily invigorated him. Not as much as one of his mom's casseroles would have invigorated him, but it was enough to bring him back around, for his eyes to open and stay that way. His body still ached something terrible, but he clung to the moment of mental clarity the water had brought.

"If I don't make it—" he began.

"Don't think like that. You'll make it. You're too stubborn not to."

"But if I _don_ _'t_ … will you write to Steve for me? I've got a letter already, for Mom and Dad, but I haven't had chance to write one for Steve, yet. Tell him… I want him to find the happiness he deserves. A wife and a bunch of kids. He'll be famous. An artist, probably. And I don't want him to think of me and be sad. He should remember all the good times. The Alamo, and Senior Prom… probably not the Cyclone at Coney Island. It made him sick a whole lot."

"You can tell him all that yourself. In fact, when the war's over, when we get home, you can introduce us." A knowing smile stole across Wells' face. "Then I can hear his version of how everything really happened. Now, on your feet, soldier. Don't make me find someone to make that an order."

He gathered what little strength was left and let Wells pull him upright once more. As he settled the SSR-01 in his grip, and focused on putting one foot in front of the other, his thoughts went to Steve. Until now, he'd never doubted that he'd see his friend again. But after the past twenty-four hours… he'd be happy just to make it to tomorrow.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

To say Peggy Carter was ready to spit flames was a massive understatement. It felt like a year since the sergeants of the 107th had disappeared into the sparse forest. In truth, it had probably been closer to an hour, but it was an hour spent struggling in futility. She'd always prided herself on being resourceful enough to escape any situation… but the ropes binding her hands were beyond her. It was fuel on the fire of anger for the man who'd left her tied up and helpless. Now, she no longer regretted punching him in the face. In fact, the next time she saw him, she might do it again.

Beads of sweat trickled down her temples as she gave over struggling against her bonds for the tenth time in as many minutes. It wasn't fair! For the past three years she'd undertaken countless important tasks for the SSR. Infiltrated enemy strongholds. Rescued POWs. Saved Dr. Erskine from the clutches of Johann Schmidt. The idea of being foiled by a simple rope was… it was beyond the pale!

She had to escape. Somehow. And she had to do it quickly, before Colonel Phillips decided to send more men. Before those men arrived and found Peggy in need of 'rescue', like some bloody damsel in distress! She was no damsel. She did not need any man to rescue her. She was fully capable of getting herself into, and out of, her own messes. She could to this. She was a strong, independent woman. She could fight and march and shoot a man between the eyes at fifty yards.

She was also completely and utterly stuck.

A crackle of dry wood and loose stones, of something large and cumbersome moving through the undergrowth, froze her still. This area of France wasn't home to any predators large enough to cause her harm, but boars were prevalent, and they could be mean, temperamental things at times.

The stumbling form emerged and in the moonlight became Sergeants Wells and Barnes, the former supporting the latter, seemingly keeping him upright. Under Sergeant Barnes' right arm was the SSR-01, its long muzzle scratched and slightly bent as it supported the rest of his weight. Peggy just knew Howard was going to throw a fit when he saw that.

 _A pair of boars indeed!_

"Agent Carter," Sergeant Wells said. She couldn't see his face clearly, but she thought he might be grinning. "Fancy meeting you out here."

She managed to slip a leash on her anger. "You have a lot to answer for, Sergeant. Now, untie me."

"Sure, sure. And Sergeant Barnes is fine for the moment, thanks for asking."

Guilt, or something like it, wound its way unpleasantly through her thoughts. She watched in silence as Sergeant Wells lowered Sergeant Barnes to the ground and settled him against an outcropping of bare rock. With the silver light playing across his face, Sergeant Barnes looked terrible. His face was grey, his lips tinged blue, and his breathing was slow and laboured. Peggy had seen a lot of people close to death before, but she'd never seen anyone who looked like they'd come through it and been spat out the other side. Perhaps she would save the tongue-lashing she'd been planning on giving until after they'd returned to camp. After Sergeant Barnes was recovered.

 _If_ he recovered.

With Sergeant Barnes secure on the ground, Sergeant Wells turned his attention to the ropes around Peggy's wrists. He very wisely avoided stepping within kicking distance of her legs, and she felt the rope move as he unplucked the knot. Despite her anger—which was swiftly cooling to a simmering annoyance—she couldn't help but feel some measure of grudging respect for the way he'd so thoroughly restrained her.

"That's a very sturdy knot you used," she admitted.

"Yeah, I thought you'd like that one. It's a sailor's knot. My brother Tim taught it to me. Gets tighter the more you pull it. The trick is to relax. Never thought it would come in handy. I guess relaxing isn't really your thing, huh?"

As the ropes fell away she prepared a scathing response, but Sergeant Wells was already on his way back to Sergeant Barnes; Peggy might not have existed. Instead of snapping back that she was perfectly capable of relaxing in _civilised_ company _thank you very much_ , she rubbed each wrist in turn, trying to ease some of the pain of the friction burn the ropes had inflicted on her.

"Here you go, pal. Have a drink. It seems to help." Sergeant Wells brought out his canteen and held it to Sergeant Barnes' lips. He drank deeply, and gasped heavily for air as it was taken away. Those damned sympathetic pangs had returned; the man must be in a very bad way, if the mere act of drinking left him struggling to breathe.

She approached the pair and crouched down on the other side of Sergeant Barnes. As soon as his eyes fell on her, they grew wide, panicked, and he seemed to shrink in on himself. If there hadn't been a stony outcropping pressed up against his flesh, she suspected he would have backed away from her.

"How are you feeling, Sergeant Barnes?" she asked.

He glared at her, his eyes no longer murderous, more like those of a frightened animal. She noticed his hand, the one closest to her, curl into a fist, his nails biting into his palm.

"Take it easy, Barnes," said Sergeant Wells. He poured a little water from the canteen onto an already damp handkerchief, and used it to dab gently at Sergeant Barnes' face. "Deep breaths, remember? No gettin' excited over dames. Agent Carter, maybe you should back up a bit. Barnes isn't quite himself."

She put aside dislike over being told what to do, even though it was phrased as a suggestion rather than the command it actually was, and took a few steps back. Sergeant Barnes didn't exactly relax, but he looked a little less tense as she retreated.

"How on Earth did you get him to come back?" she asked. When he'd suggested talking Sergeant Barnes down, she'd thought he'd been grasping at straws. That he had no chance of succeeding. The man had already threatened an unarmed woman with a weapon, taken a shot at Peggy, and saw German spies everywhere he looked. And yet here he was; quiet, unrestrained, and not trying to kill anybody. And Sergeant Wells hadn't needed to fire a single shot to bring him back.

"We just had a little talk. Right, Barnes?"

Sergeant Barnes said nothing. It seemed Howard was right; although the medicine in the injector had switched off the adrenaline coursing through his blood, he still wasn't in his right mind. Still paranoid; just less violent about it.

"Do you need any help?" she asked.

"I think we've had all the help we need from you, Agent Carter."

She couldn't help it. Since leaving camp he'd been nothing but prickly and irritable and… and… mannish! The way he snapped at her, and rebuffed all offers at help, it was as if he blamed her for this whole mess!

"Sergeant, do you have some sort of problem with me?"

He turned a scowl on her as he stood to face her. "I have a problem with anyone who'd shoot a guy who's sick. What happened to Barnes isn't his fault; he needs treatment, not putting down. You chased a man suffering paranoid delusions, with a gun. You could have scared him off, and then he would've died alone, and we might never have found him."

"Perhaps if you didn't hold such a childish view of the world, I wouldn't have to be the one to take the difficult actions," she shot back. "Soldiers you may be, but at times you act more like little boys than grown men! This isn't a fairytale. It isn't a story. It isn't a game. People will die. That's the harsh reality of war."

"Don't talk to me about harsh reality." The moonlight turned his blue eyes to cold chips of ice. "I don't see you storming any bunkers, shooting guys, watching them die, hearing their last breaths. Guess it's safer to shoot a sick man who's on your side."

Her hands twitched, itching to curl up into fists. He'd probably see a punch coming, but she didn't care. She'd just about had her fill of boys playing at war. Of soldiers strutting around like they owned the camp, and then crying foul when things no longer went their way. Of men who saw her as some sort of enemy, simply because she could do what they did as well as they did it. Of having to try five times as hard to get even a sliver of respect.

A croaking voice pierced the angry silence. "Thirsty, " gasped Sergeant Barnes.

"And now you've upset Barnes," accused Sergeant Wells.

He crouched down and brought out his canteen again. Peggy used his distraction to drink in a little calm of her own. Punching the sergeant wouldn't help. She was foolish to expect him to understand anything beyond his own sphere of experience; to see the bigger picture, and understand that no matter how much you wanted it, and how much it hurt to lose friends, you couldn't save everyone. Death's reach extended far beyond the front lines. Perhaps, in time, the men in the camp would come to realise that for themselves. Time was the best teacher. She knew that from experience.

"C'mon, we gotta get goin'" Sergeant Wells said. He took his canteen back and swung one of Sergeant Barnes' arms across his neck, hauling the sick man to his feet. They wobbled for a moment, and Sergeant Barnes seemed to rouse a little. He plucked at one of the buttons of Sergeant Wells' jacket.

"You're buttoned up crooked."

A grim smile played across Sergeant Wells' lips. "Yeah, well, a bit of notice would'a been nice. Next time you decide to run off on a Nazi-hunt, you might wanna let me get dressed, first."

They set off in a slow, stumbling shuffle, and Peggy could only watch them go. Inside, she felt again as she had on that tragic day when Doctor Erskine had been shot: a helpless bystander. Completely and utterly useless.


	39. Peaches and Cream

We Were Soldiers

 _39\. Peaches and Cream_

"Is he awake?" _Carrot._

"I think he's waking up." _Gusty._

"Are you sure? He looks like he's still asleep." _Franklin._

"He looks half dead." _Hodge._

"That's still better than you look on a good day." _Mex._

"I gotta go feed the chickens. Lemme know if he dies." _Davies._

"Ooh, can I help feed the birds?" _Carrot again._

"Ah think ah saw his fingers twitch." _Tex._

"Maybe we should get a nurse." _Biggs._

"Look, his eyes are flickering." _Hawkins._

"C'mon, Barnes, don't be a damn drama queen. Just open your eyes." _Wells._

Bucky licked his parched lips, trying to work some moisture back into his mouth. Behind his closed eyelids, he imagined his friends from the 107th crowding around, peering at him like he was some sort of interesting specimen to be studied under a lens.

"Don't wanna open them," he said, his voice cracked and hoarse, his throat rough sandpaper. "Don't want your ugly mugs to be the first thing I see."

"You aren't exactly a vision of beauty yourself," Wells scoffed.

Bucky finally peeped his eyes open. Several pale, blurry moons hovered before a dark, khaki ceiling. Every inch of him ached, from his scalp down to his toes, and he felt oddly thin. Not thin in a 'lost a lot of weight' way… more like, the very fibre of his being had been pulled and stretched in different directions, until he'd almost reached snapping point. Memories assaulted his mind. A forest. A fire burning inside him. An aching desire to find Steve. The need to uncover perceived conspiracies. The fear of being poisoned.

The pale, blurry moons coalesced into faces looking down at him. On those faces, a dozen emotions were etched: worry, unease, concern, relief, and a bunch of other stuff he was too exhausted to put names to. He hoped to God he was alive, because if this was Heaven, it was a huge disappointment. No Rita Hayworth, for a start.

"What happened?" he croaked. Somebody handed him a glass of water, and he took several large gulps. God, it tasted good! Sweeter than honey and colder than ice.

"You lost consciousness not far from the camp," said Wells, perching on the edge of the bed and shoo'ing everybody back by a couple of paces. "Agent Carter and I managed to haul your heavy ass the rest of the way. It was touch and go for a while, but Stark's cure seems to be working. You're not fully mended yet, but you're out of the woods."

He nodded, trying to fill in some of the blanks. His thoughts had been so frantic, so chaotic, so full of heat and anger, that they didn't feel real. They felt more like an infection that had been lanced from his body, leaving behind nothing but hazy memories and a small scar.

"Will you give us a moment?" he asked the rest of the guys.

They all nodded. Gave him encouraging claps on the shoulder. Ruffled his hair. Found some way to touch him, as if making sure for themselves that he really was alive and well. As if touching him made his recovery real. They mumbled well-wishes and offers of fetching him anything he needed, and they filed out as a group, their conversation turning to the upcoming poker match against the 69th, because it was easier to talk about poker than it was to talk about how close they'd come to losing another member of the regiment. Bucky couldn't blame them. He wished he had nothing more important than a poker game to think about. Unfortunately, he had about a thousand wrongs to right.

"How many apologies do I owe you this time?" he offered, as Wells made himself more comfortable—and helped himself to a glass of Bucky's water.

"Just one. If you'd got that toothache checked out when I told you, maybe they would'a caught that compound in your blood sooner, and all of this could'a been avoided."

"Nobody likes a know-it-all," he grumbled.

Wells chuckled. "I'm not a know-it-all, I'm a smart-ass. There's a difference. And anyway, if I'm gonna be good at something, it might as well be that."

Bucky raked his teeth over his lower lip as new thoughts darted through his mind. "I didn't hurt anybody, did I?"

"Nurse Klein's still a little shaken up. And Agent Carter's gonna be pissy over you shooting at her for the rest of her life. But you didn't hurt anyone."

A deep sigh of relief escaped his lips. If he'd hurt someone… he didn't think he could live with himself. He'd signed up to fight for freedom. To _save_ the lives of innocent men and women; not to take them.

"I told her it was a warning shot, by the way," Wells added. "Was I right, or was your aim off?"

Bucky's guts twisted unpleasantly. "I don't know," he admitted. "I barely even remember taking aim. I hope you're right. How long has it been since you brought me back?"

"Less than ten hours. Stark said his cure ought to work pretty quick… if it worked at all."

"I think it's working. I feel like me again. Or, more like me than I did yesterday. Though, I'm surprised the colonel didn't order me restrained again. Just in case Stark's cure didn't work like he hoped."

"After you slipped the last restraints, I think he thought it would be pointless." Wells reached over to give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry, pal, there are a couple of armed MPs outside the hospital, and they're under strict orders to shoot you if you try to leave."

"Oh. That's real comforting, thanks."

His friend grinned. "And you've got your sarcasm back. I'm no quack, but I'd say you're definitely on the mend."

"Thanks to you. I appreciate you coming after me. But—" time to beat some sense into Wells, "—it was a stupid thing to do. What were you thinking, coming after me unarmed? Carter was right. The next time I go crazy, you need to stop me before I hurt someone. Promise me you won't do something that stupid again."

Wells' blue eyes clouded darkly beneath a scowl. "It wasn't stupid. I'm not an idiot, despite what you may think—"

"I don't think you're an idiot. You're one of the smartest guys I know. But it wasn't a smart thing to do. I could've killed you."

"Yeah, you could've," Wells agreed. "But you didn't. When you had that SSR rifle in your hands, you could'a killed a lot of people. Taken out the sentries to stop them raising the alarm. Shot anyone pursuing you. And maybe if you'd shot someone, I would'a come after you with a gun. Okay, several guns. And all the sharp-shooters in the camp." His friend squeezed his shoulder, driving home the weight of his decision. "I do believe that deep down at the core of who you are, you're a good man. A good man who stands zero chance with Rita Hayworth, but a good man nonetheless. And when you fled, you proved there was still some of that good man in there, because you _didn_ _'t_ leave a pile of bodies behind you, despite having one of the most frightening weapons in the whole camp in your hands."

He wanted to argue further, but couldn't find a suitable point of attack. He'd thought Wells' decision to come after him unarmed had been borne of some misguided sense of loyalty, coupled with doing what he thought was the soldierly thing to do. He hadn't realised Wells actually _believed_ in that decision, or that he believed in Bucky to the extent that he truly expected to come to no harm whilst pursuing him. That he'd made a believer out of the most irreverent, sceptical guy in the camp, was kinda humbling.

"I should go tell the colonel you're _compos mentis_ again. He asked to be informed when you woke up." Wells pushed himself off the bed and straightened his jacket. It was fastened correctly. For some reason, that made Bucky smile. "To quote verbatim, _'I need Sergeant Barnes back in the field to deal with real Nazis, not imaginary ones.'_ It's like he doesn't trust my ability to deal with Nazis without you," he sighed. "If you need anything, anything at all… find out which nurse is on shift. If it's Nurse Sanders, send for me. Anybody else, send for Carrot."

"Alright. And thanks again. Say hi to the rest of the guys for me."

"I will. And I'll stop by again after dinner, to make sure they're feeding you properly."

Wells left Bucky alone, with only his thoughts for company. In the airy hospital tent, with daylight streaming in and the nearby hum of voices, he could almost believe that the past twenty-four hours hadn't happened. That it had all been some dream, distorted by sleep… or perhaps a nightmare. He couldn't recall every moment, but the moments he could recall were frightening.

In those moments, he had truly and completely believed in his own delusions. The German voices conspiring in the night had seemed so _real_ that he could still hear them in his mind. He remembered talking with Gusty and Wells, accusing his friends of not believing him. Most of his irritability had come from the pain in his mouth, and possibly the combination of drugs they'd pumped into him to help bring the infection under control. After that, things got kinda hazy. He remembered wanting cookies… and then everything started to blur, his thought gripped by a paranoia so strong that he'd actually believed he could find Steve.

 _Idiot._

An hour after Wells left, Colonel Phillips arrived, accompanied by Dr. Peacock. The doctor seemed nervous; kept taking off his spectacles and cleaning them on his coat, even though they weren't dirty. The furtive glances he shot at Bucky suggested he half expected him to grab another scalpel and start threatening people again.

"Sergeant Wells tells me you're feeling much better, Sergeant Barnes," Phillips said, with considerably less bark than usual.

"Yessir. And I'm eager to get back to work."

Something like a smile tried to twist the colonel's lips, and ended up coming out more like a grimace. "Good. I want you ready to deal with the _real_ Nazis, not the damn imaginary ones in your head."

Bucky had to bite his lower lip to stop himself grinning at how accurate Wells' impression of Colonel Phillips had been. To disguise the encroaching grin, he gave a fake cough, covering his mouth with his hand until he had his lower face under control.

"Yes, sir," he agreed. "And I'd like to apologise for my behaviour, sir. I wasn't myself."

"No apology is necessary, Sergeant. You were sick. Just try not to make a habit of it."

"I will." He glanced across to Dr. Peacock, who'd been silent so far. "Have you any idea how I got sick in the first place? Wells said something about a substance in my blood that was making me crazy."

"We have several theories but no concrete answers, I'm afraid," the doctor said. "It's most likely you came into contact with something on your last mission. It's also possible that the… substance… Mr. Stark exposed you to in gaseous form somehow lingered in your system, mutated, interacted with the infection in your body and the drugs we gave you, and somehow formed an entirely different compound. Or maybe you ate something that was contaminated, but your compromised immune system meant you succumbed to it when others didn't."

The doctor's vague response did not ease the concern currently swirling around in Bucky's stomach. It sounded like guesswork. Like he had no real idea about how Bucky had gotten sick.

"If you don't know how I got sick, how are you going to stop me—or other soldiers—getting sick again? What if next time, an entire regiment go paranoid and crazy?"

"We're looking into transmission vectors," the doctor offered lamely. "Examining infection sites and considering new contamination controls…"

And that was what doctors did, he realised. When they didn't have answers, they tried to fob you off with medical babble in the hopes of confusing you so much you stopped asking the questions they couldn't answer.

"We'll leave you to get some rest, Sergeant," said Phillips.

"Sir, when can I return to my own bed?" he asked. The hospital beds weren't exactly uncomfortable, but there was no place like home. He missed the familiarity of tying Biggs to his bed before settling down for the night. Falling asleep to Hodge's snores. Waking up to Carrot's push-ups. Trying to guess what bad dream Gusty had suffered based on how bad his flatulence was. Throwing things at Wells to wake him up. Spending the first few minutes of the day listening to the rest of the guys talk about what they wished they were having for breakfast. Daydreaming over bacon, sausages, eggs, beans, hash brown, and toast so warm and buttery that it was actually soggy.

"Tomorrow," the doctor replied instantly. "At the earliest. You're very lucky to be alive, Sergeant Barnes. We want to observe you overnight, and Mr. Stark needs to continue your treatment, to ensure the compound that made you sick is fully neutralised before we release you back to your regiment's tent."

Bucky nodded. If all it took to be released from the hospital was getting stronger and complying with the medics, he would be a model patient. He'd sleep on command, eat whatever soft food they wanted him to eat, and would take his medicine in whatever form it came. Hopefully it would come in tablet form.

The colonel and the doctor weren't the only visitors Bucky had that day. As midday approached, Howard Stark stopped by, and he brought Agent Carter with him. Seeing Carter brought back more hazy memories of stumbling through the dark, wishing he had a pistol in his hands, listening to her argue with Wells about making hard choices. As glad as he was that his friend had brought him back unharmed, he was also glad Carter had been there. To make the hard choice, if it was necessary. _Better that than letting me hurt someone._

"Sergeant Barnes, you broke one of my babies with your heavy leaning," Stark accused, his dark eyebrows drawn low over his eyes.

"You remembered my name!" Bucky grinned.

"That's your name? Huh. I just took a guess. I was fifty-fifty on whether your name was Barnes, or… that other guy," he said, snapping his fingers to try and jog his memory.

"Wells?"

"No, no… Banks."

Bucky gave Stark his very best unimpressed stare. "Banks is from the 370th Infantry. And he's a Captain. He's also black."

"Like I said, it was fifty-fifty."

"It's good to see you looking more like yourself, Sergeant," Agent Carter spoke up.

"Thanks. And thank you for coming after me last night. I'm sorry Wells gave you a hard time. Truth is, we need people who can make the difficult choices. I wouldn't have held it against you if you'd shot me."

"Fortunately, it didn't come to that." The small she gave him was a shade warmer than usual. It seemed not even Agent Carter could be one hundred percent frosty with someone who'd nearly died.

"Yes yes, you're very lucky," Stark added. "But that rifle is never going to be the same again. Even if I can fix it, I'm not sure I want to give it back to you. Not if you're going to mistreat it like that and use it for menial _leaning_."

"That's fine by me," Bucky told him. "I like my M1." It was less sneaky. The weapon of an infantryman. If it was good enough for the rest of the guys of the 107th, it was good enough for him. Let someone else sit behind the SSR-01 and kill coldly from a distance.

"Huh. Well. Glad we're in agreement," said Stark. From his pocket he drew a small, narrow container. "Now, just relax while I give you this medicine."

He peered over as Stark opened the container, hoping for a tablet. It wasn't a tablet. It was a syringe.

"Why does medicine always have to come in needles?" he sighed.

"If you prefer, I could put it into a suppository?"

He shuddered as Agent Carter stifled a cruel smile. "Needles are fine."

"I thought you'd say that." Stark removed the cap from the needle and advanced with a maniacal grin. Bucky thought he was enjoying himself far too much. Possibly, this was his revenge for Bucky damaging his 'baby.' "This cure is highly experimental," he said chattily, as he found a vein in Bucky's arm and stuck the needle into it. "I have to monitor the exact dosage very carefully. Too little, and it won't neutralise all of the compound in your blood. Too much, and it could leave you a vegetable. You're lucky I'm here, Sergeant; I doubt there's anyone else in this camp with the knowledge and skill to develop and administer such a pioneering and dangerous drug."

"And your bedside manner is impeccable," Bucky added. "I feel comforted and reassured already."

"Come on, Mr. Stark," said Agent Carter. "Let's leave Sergeant Barnes to his bedrest. We don't want to over-excite him, do we?"

After the pair left, Bucky spent some time just staring at the vein into which Stark had injected his… cure? Antidote? Whatever it was, it was coursing through his veins. Attacking the invasive compound in his blood. Not unlike how he and his fellow soldiers were fighting the Nazis, really. Hopefully, they'd be as successful against the Nazis as Stark's cure was against whatever had made him act like a genuine crazy person.

"Um, excuse me, Sergeant Barnes?"

Nurse Klein was standing at the foot of his bed, a mess tray in her hands. Bucky swiftly stopped poking his vein.

"Nurse Klein. Um… How are you?" What the hell were you supposed to say to someone you'd threatened with a scalpel and accused of being a German spy?

"I'm fine. I brought you some lunch."

"Is it cookies?"

"No, sorry." She set the tray down on the edge of the bed. It was stew. And more canned pears in syrup, for dessert. "Whilst you were… um… unwell, your gum started bleeding again. It will be another day or two before you can eat anything hard." She gave him a smile that dimpled her pink cheeks. "But I've put some cookies aside for you, for when you're up to them."

"Thanks. I'm glad you stopped by. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am, for threatening you." He wouldn't apologise to Agent Carter, because she'd known when she'd set off after him how dangerous he might be, and she'd been prepared to do whatever was necessary to stop him causing more harm. But Nurse Klein had been an innocent bystander. Just doing her job. Trying to help him. And he'd come so close to hurting her.

"You weren't yourself," she said. "There's no need to apologise. I know you wouldn't have behaved like that if you were feeling well."

"So you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive."

"I'd like forgiveness anyway," he said. _Needed_ it.

"Oh, very well," she sighed, issuing him with a stern glare. "I forgive you. But only if you'll eat these pears and pretend to be happy about it."

"Of course," the model patient said. He could already feel his strength returning. Trickling back slowly, to be sure, but it was better than nothing. He knew of no better panacea than food and sleep… even if that food was in soft or liquid form. Besides, he had cookies waiting for him.

He drank the stew. He ate the pears. He pretended to be happy about it. He thanked Nurse Klein profusely, and she took the tray away, ordering him to have a little nap. He decided to obey that order. It was probably the nicest order he'd been given since joining the army.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Marielle Green smoothed down the white pinafore of her uniform as she slipped out of the women's tent. She didn't have the night shift today, but that was no problem; if the soldiers in the camp looked at her twice, it was because they admired the way her uniform hugged the curves of her body in all the right places. She had learnt long ago that most men did not care to look beyond a pretty face. That was why she had been chosen.

She stepped quickly, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the patches of silvery moonlight. _Ein geist_ , she knew how to pass through a camp full of soldiers without making a sound. Lord knew, she'd had enough practise.

The note had been very specific, the handwriting harsh, blocky; clearly fake. She'd been so excited when Peggy had suggested polling the soldiers with questions to try and discern the identity of Audrey's mystery letter-writer. So sure she could use the opportunity to finally find the man who held her leash. But none of the handwriting had matched. She'd kept those forms even after Peggy had finished with them, checking and double-checking each one against the writing she had memorised because she dared not keep the notes. It had been futile.

She reached the area between the motor pool and quartermaster's tent and waited, hugging her bare arms despite the warmth of the night air. He never kept her waiting long. They never met in the same place twice, and he never let her see his face. She didn't even know how tall he was, nor whether he was a soldier or another member of the camp's staff. All she knew was that he was a high-ranking member of the Gestapo. That he had the Führer's ear… and the power to make her disappear.

Tonight, she had more reason than ever to be afraid. She had acted on her own initiative, and she knew there would be a price to pay.

"Guten abend, Fräulein."

The voice came from several feet away, from the dark moon-shadow of a tank. Caught off guard, she jumped, and quickly cast her gaze to the ground

"Guten abend, mein Herr."

It wasn't easy to put aside the accent she practised so often. The way they spoke in the American Deep South was more like singing than talking. The words lilted, running into each other, the stresses and inflections all wrong, a foreign invader on her tongue. She was sure her own Berlin accent was suffering because of it.

"You have been foolish, Fräulein," he accused softly. "You have jeopardised our entire operation. The Führer will be most displeased."

"I'm sorry!" she said quickly. She daren't look into the shadows, to plead with her eyes, so she put the feeling into her voice instead. "I panicked, sir. Sergeant Barnes, he overheard us talking, and I knew the only way to discredit his claim was to make it seem he had lost his mind. I miscalculated. The serum is stronger than we had anticipated. More potent. I would have checked with you first, but I had no time. I needed to inject him before he came around from his tooth extraction. I didn't know what else to do!"

"You should have done nothing!" The voice turned harsh, and Marielle flinched. "Even if Colonel Phillips had believed Sergeant Barnes, his investigations would have turned up nothing. I am too well hidden."

"But I am not! Sergeant Barnes told them he heard a woman's voice, and there are not so many women in the camp that I would have been beyond suspicion. They would have questioned me. Maybe even searched my footlocker—"

"And they would have found only a lady's personal belongings," he snapped. "Instead, you have ruined many carefully laid plans. The timetable must now be brought forward. We cannot wait for the Americans to finish dealing with these HYDRA facilities. Stark has an antidote, crude as it is. We must act before he further refines it. Tomorrow night, you will put the remaining serum into the camp's water supply. When more and more men start losing their minds, the Americans will have their hands full. Depending on how this trial goes, our undercover operatives may start distributing the serum into our enemies' civilian water supplies."

"Of course," she agreed, head bowed. She did not tell him how hard it would be gain access to the water supply. She would simply have to find a way.

"One more thing." The voice paused, and Marielle held her breath, expecting at any moment the harsh punishment to fall. "Perhaps we can make Stark believe that his 'cure' is a failure. You will inject Sergeant Barnes with a further dose of the serum. Twice was much as you gave him last time. His death will make Stark more reluctant to use his cure on others. It may delay their response."

Her stomach lurched. It had been hard enough to get a moment alone with Sergeant Barnes to inject him the first time. If he was to die before she contaminated the water supply, she would have to inject him tonight. Tomorrow he would be released back to his barracks, and there would be almost no chance of getting him alone after that. Not without heavily incriminating herself.

"I will do it right away," she agreed.

"Good. If we are successful, I will ensure the Führer hears of your accomplishments. You will be well rewarded for all you have done for the Reich."

"Thank you, sir." His words stirred something within her. A pride often buried by fear. A desire half-forgotten during the daily ennui. In the end, her toil would be worth it. She would help her country become great again; a power to rival even America! From England to Russia, German would be the lingua franca, and the world would know strength and purity. The Führer would know her name, and it was not Marielle Green.

"Go. See that it's done. Twelve hours from now I want to be watching another body put into the ground."

"Heil Hitler," she whispered quietly. There was no response. There never was. That she said the words was enough.

Back at the women's barracks tent she worked as quietly as she could. Most of the nurses were deep sleepers, but Agent Carter had a habit of waking up at small, furtive noises. It was as if the British woman had been born with some supernatural sense for detecting all things sneaky. It was much harder to keep up appearances around the women than it was the men. They were far more judgemental and nosey.

She opened her footlocker and took out her makeup kit box, removing the deep tray with its false bottom. In the small space below was a length of rolled-up material, which she unravelled to reveal a syringe within. Small items often went missing from the hospital. Syringes rolled off tables, if they weren't put down the right way. None of the medical staff grew too suspicious, so long as the disappearances were small and infrequent.

From her footlocker she withdrew a bottle of what seemed an innocent perfume. _Peaches and Cream_ , the bottle said. Lucky for her, the nurses had a great sense of propriety. Had any of them thought to borrow a spray of what was actually inside the bottle, they would have wound up almost as agitated as Sergeant Barnes.

She took the top off the bottle and inserted the needle of the syringe, taking up twice as much of the liquid as she had last time. It was hard to believe that such a small measure of the substance could have such a devastating effect on a person. Clearly, it was true what they said about good things coming in small packages. Or at least, _strong things_ coming in small packages. She was no fool; she knew the substance itself cared nothing for morality. It would attack friend and enemy alike without prejudice.

The hospital's storeroom was her final stop. The medical staff kept a small supply of food separate from the mess, mostly high-energy biscuits, a small quantity of chocolate, and canned fruit that was most suitable for those undergoing treatment. She took a couple of cookies from an already open packet and put them on a small mess tray. Such a shame she couldn't prepare a cup of coffee, too. Hopefully, Sergeant Barnes would be asleep, and she would be able to administer the serum without any interference. But if he was awake, it would be necessary for her to be creative. Men were suckers for a pretty girl who came bearing cookies.

She slipped the syringe into her pocket with its protective cap on, and set off towards the hospital. Two MPs were on guard outside the tent, and they nodded in greeting as she approached. By now they were used to the doctors and nurses coming and going at all hours to treat patients. This was nothing out of the ordinary for them.

As she entered the tent, she felt no guilt or regret. Sergeant Barnes would not be the first man she had killed in service to her country, nor would he be the last. He was just a soldier, and America churned out tens of thousands like him every year. In many ways they had become a plague, and the serum she had helped to develop was a cure for that plague. With a smile on her lips, she stepped forward and prepared to carry out her role as exterminator.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: The conversation between Marielle and the other guy was spoken in German. However, most of my readers aren't German, and I'm too lazy to translate more than an occasional sentence back and forth. And let's face it, CA:TFA had entire chunks of dialogue between Schmidt and Zola in English (not to mention between Schmidt and the Nazi trio inspecting his base) for this very reason. I embrace my laziness proudly, without fear!_

 _Also, I_ _'m away next week to a place in the sticks, which means no interwebs. So, I'll publish the next chapter as soon as I return home on Sunday (12th March). I know, I know, I'm a horrible person. Super sorry about the massive cliffhanger!_


	40. Questions

We Were Soldiers

 _40\. Questions_

Sleep did not come easily, despite Bucky's best attempts to embrace it. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his own hand. Picking up a scalpel. Holding it to the throat of Nurse Klein. In his mind's eye he was peering down the scope of his rifle, his finger caressing the trigger as he waited for the perfect moment to squeeze.

Burdened by the things he had almost done, haunted by the ghosts of _what if_ , he drifted in and out of a light sleep, never finding true peace, until a swish of cloth moving against cloth woke him fully.

A figure in the shadows stepped forward into the dim light of the nearby oil lamp, becoming Nurse Green carrying a tray of food. She smiled warmly when she saw him awake and watching her.

"Trouble sleeping, hun?" she drawled, her voice a silken balm to his troubled mind.

"Just a little. Bad dreams," he admitted.

"Well, ah've got something that might cheer you up a little."

She placed the tray on the table beside his bed. When he saw cookies, his lips pulled up into a smile. He tried to stifle it, to inject some mock severity into his voice.

"Nurse Klein said my gum isn't healed enough for hard food."

"We'll keep this between us," she winked. "What Nurse Klein doesn't know can't hurt her. Besides, ah think you deserve a little sweetness, after everything you've been through."

He grabbed a cookie from the tray and munched it happily. "I completely agree. Could I maybe have a glass of milk, too? My mom used to let me have milk and a cookie before bed, when I was a kid."

"Of course." She smiled again, and plucked something from one of the deep pockets of her pinafore. It was a syringe. Bucky pulled his face when he saw it. He'd been stuck with so many needles over the past two days it was a wonder his skin wasn't one giant hole. "But first, ah need to give you another shot of medicine."

"What is it?" he asked. Nurse Klein had already told him he'd finished his course of antibiotics. Dr. Peacock had offered him a sedative in pill form, but was reluctant to put even more drugs in his body whilst Stark's cure was at work.

"Just a booster of Mr. Stark's formula," she said, taking off the cap, exposing the gleaming silver needle. "You'll soon be right as rain."

With his second cookie halfway to his mouth, Bucky froze as Stark's voice came echoing back from earlier in the day. " _This cure is highly experimental_ _… I have to monitor the exact dosage very carefully. Too little, and it won't neutralise all of the compound in your blood. Too much, and it could leave you a vegetable… I doubt there's anyone else in this camp with the knowledge and skill to develop and administer such a pioneering and dangerous drug."_

Howard Stark might be an egotistical braggart, but he wasn't a liar. And he wouldn't trust someone else with such a dangerous substance; he was surprisingly protective of his inventions, even that damn face-on-a-stick.

But… why would Nurse Green lie?

He looked down at the cookie in his hand. If he wanted to give somebody something that wasn't good for them, he'd try to lower their suspicions by giving them something they really wanted. Something to distract them. To make them trust him enough to let him close enough to strike.

He looked up at Nurse Green's face, and that's when he knew.

 _She_ _'d poisoned him._

She was the woman he'd overheard, and she'd made him crazy so nobody would believe him. And now she was trying to make him crazy again. Or worse, she was trying to finish the job she'd started. He'd barely survived whatever she'd injected him with last time.

 _I have to warn the colonel!_

His eye fell on the metal tray, just within arm's reach. "I think I'll finish this later," he said, reaching out to put the cookie down. As Nurse Green advanced, his groping fingers found the tray and he brought it across with force, striking her hand, sending the syringe flying. She gasped in pain and shock, but Bucky was already moving.

The need to survive kicked his tired, aching body into action. He threw himself from the bed and tackled Nurse Green to the ground. He expected her to cry and sob and plead as Nurse Klein had, but instead she fought with her hands, her fists, her elbows, her knees. Like a wildcat, she scratched at his chest with her nails, and he struck out with a back-hand even as his mom's voice in his head yelled, _James Buchanan Barnes, you do not hit girls!_

In the end, his weight and height gave him the upper hand; as Nurse Green tried to scramble away on her hands and knees, towards the dropped syringe, he threw himself on her and forced one arm behind her back, whilst his knees pinned her legs in place. Colonel Phillips' warnings of cyanide pills prompted him to reach out to the nearest bed and pull the blanket from it. He quickly twisted it around, and pulled it into the nurse's mouth, separating her top and bottom jaw so she couldn't clamp down on whatever suicide pill she might be considering.

No sooner had he done that, than two MPs came rushing in, drawn by the scuffles and squeals of the fighting. Panting hard as he leaned his body weight down on the struggling woman, he glared up at them, and snapped, "Fetch Colonel Phillips."

The MPs lifted their guns, aiming at his back.

"Sergeant, let the nurse go," one of them said.

"Like hell I will!" he growled. "She's a Nazi! Now go get the colonel." They didn't move, so he raised his voice and shouted, "Colonel, Colonel Phillips!"

That seemed to do it. He heard people waking in the tents around the hospital. The nurses calling out questions. Soldiers asking if they were under attack. In the silence of the night, his voice carried far, even from within the canvas walls. One of the guards finally left to fetch the colonel, and Bucky felt himself immediately vindicated.

He didn't have to wait long. Colonel Phillips appeared dressed for bed in his shorts and a tee, a pistol clasped in his hands. Agent Carter appeared by his side, dressed in her uniform, perfectly buttoned without a single crease. Did she sleep in the damn thing?!

"Sergeant, what in God's name is going on here?" the colonel barked. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Sir, she poisoned me."

"Not this again!" Agent Carter sighed.

"This is different, she really did poison me. Look, over there." He nodded to the fallen syringe. "She was trying to inject me with that. She said it was Stark's cure, but Stark already told me he wouldn't trust anyone else to give me that."

"That's true, sir," Agent Carter said. "I was there at the time. Howard's very precious about anything he's invented. He's afraid people are going to steal his ideas. He wouldn't even let Dr. Peacock examine the formula, before giving it to Sergeant Barnes."

"She gave me cookies, too," Bucky added. As the others looked on, he realised it wasn't exactly a heinous Nazi act, to give a guy baked goods. "I'm not supposed to have cookies."

Phillips crouched down, tilting his head to stare at Nurse Green's face. Bucky couldn't see her expression, but he didn't think she'd was smiling warmly anymore.

"Nurse Green, do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"I can't let go, sir," Bucky said. "She might have one of those cyanide capsules you told us about."

"Alright." Phillips glanced up at the MPs. "Men, take custody of Nurse Green, and don't remove that gag from her mouth. Agent Carter, take that syringe to Mr. Stark; I want to know what's in it, and I want to know within the next half hour. Then fetch Dr. Peacock and ask him to check Sergeant Barnes over."

The MPs shouldered their weapons and came forward to restrain Nurse Green. It took Bucky a moment to relax enough to let them take her, and as soon as she was led struggling and growling from the hospital, Bucky's legs turned to jello. Luckily, Phillips was loitering nearby. He managed to grab hold of Bucky's arm and practically hauled him back onto his bed.

"Just take it easy, Sergeant, you've had an exciting few days. It seems you have a flair for attracting trouble."

"Me?! No, sir, nothing like this ever happened before I signed up," he assured the colonel. Then, childhood memories came flooding back in. "Well, hardly ever. Not very often, at least."

But judging by the look on the colonel's face, Bucky didn't think his CO believed him anymore.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"…and then I tackled her to the ground, and she fought like a damn cat. Just as I got her into an arm lock, the MPs came. I think they thought I was crazy again, and I knew if I let her go, we'd probably never see her again, so I thought, I should make as much noise as possible, wake the whole camp. Because I wasn't actually crazy this time, so it didn't matter if I acted crazy. And when the colonel arrived, he had her dragged off for questioning, which is where she is now."

Bucky finished his tale and settled back down onto his half of the bed. Since the ruckus in the early hours, he'd had lots of well-wishers come visit him in the hospital. In fact, there were some whose names he didn't know. Some who weren't even from his regiment. Some weren't even _infantry_. Eventually, the nurses had gotten so fed up with the queue of people trying to get answers out of Bucky, that they'd implemented a 'three guests only' rule.

Carrot, Gusty and Wells had pulled rank to ensure they were the three who got in. Carrot was very smartly standing to attention beside Bucky's hospital bed, whilst Gusty was lounging on the next bed over sipping water from a plastic cup that probably wasn't supposed to be used for _drinking_ from, and Wells had appropriated half of Bucky's bed for himself.

"I gotta say," Wells said, after the whole story had been told, "you have impeccable taste in dames, pal. I can't remember the last time a dame I was sweet on tried to kill me. By the way, are you going to eat that?" He pointed to the tray of canned pears, on the table beside the bed.

Bucky wrinkled his nose. "I've been eating canned pears since I got admitted here. I think I might be sick if I have any more."

Wells grabbed the tray and began stuffing pear slices into his mouth. "Thanks. I've been—"

"Losing weight," they all finished. The record was getting old.

"That's quite an exciting tale, Sarge," said Carrot appreciatively. "I can't imagine being attacked by Nazi spies. If Tipper were here, he could've made a book out of it."

"So, let me get this right," Gusty spoke up. "Even when you were crazy, you were _right_?"

Bucky shrugged. "I guess even my crazy mind spotted some iota of truth amongst the madness."

"Huh. I wonder who she really is, and why she's spying on us."

"Phillips will get it out of her," Bucky told him. Now that the shock of nearly being killed—twice—had worn off, his desire for answers was growing. Just who _was_ Nurse Green? What was her mission here? Had she really liked Bucky, or had her flirting been a ploy, just another part of the act?

"Have they said when you can be released, Sarge?" Gusty asked him.

He nodded. "After lunch." And he couldn't wait for things to get back to normal.

"You know, I think you've actually put weight on since being in here," said Wells, eyeing Bucky beneath his itchy woollen medical blanket. "Maybe I should get sick. In fact, maybe I already am. What if my weight loss is due to intestinal parasites, or… ahh… a tapeworm, or something?"

"Everyone's looking forward to you getting back," Carrot offered. "The tent's not the same without you, Sarge."

"Yeah," Wells agreed. "For a start, I get to lie in bed without having things thrown at me."

The arrival of a stern-looking nurse halted any further banter. She stopped in front of the group with her hands on her ample hips, took in the sight of Gusty lounging on a bed sipping water and Wells taking over half of Bucky's bed, and gave them a deep scowl.

"This is a hospital, not a hotel. Get your feet down off that bed, Corporal, and those beds were not made to hold two, Sergeant."

"I'm glad you're here, Nurse," Wells said, as he slid off the bed. "I've been losing a lot of weight recently. I think I have a tapeworm."

"You think you have a tapeworm," she said, though to Bucky's ears it didn't sound much like a question. With a deep sigh, she walked over to a cupboard, took out a pair of medical gloves and pulled them onto her hands, to halfway up her forearms. The elastic _snap_ they made as she pulled them tight against her skin held an ominous undertone. With a grim smile, she patted the bed nearest to her. "Very well. Drop your pants and bend over here. The rest of you might want to avert your eyes; this isn't going to be pretty."

Wells paled by several shades. "Did I say tapeworm? I mean… err… bookworm. I love reading. My intestines are fine."

"What a remarkable recovery. Now, Sergeant Barnes needs a final checkup, Mr. Stark needs a blood sample, and I need space to work. Anybody who isn't sick needs to leave."

"We'll see you later, pal," said Wells. "Don't let these vultures bleed you dry."

Gusty halted by the nurse on his way out. "Is, umm, Audrey working the day shift today?"

The nurse gave him a glare, and he slunk sheepishly out.

"I'm glad you're not crazy anymore, Sarge," Carrot said, before he followed the others.

"Me too, Carrot," he smiled at the man. "Me too."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Peggy stifled a yawn as she strode towards the command tent. She wished it was night, and that she'd already washed off her makeup, then she could rub a little life back into her tired eyes. After twelve hours of interrogating Nurse Green—whom she now knew probably wasn't actually called Nurse Green at all—she had discovered exactly nothing. It was time to hand over the operation to somebody else. To hope a fresh pair of hands could shake something loose. And if that fresh pair of hands came close to throttling the woman… well, Peggy could sympathise.

When she arrived at the command tent, she found Howard busy debriefing Colonel Phillips on the syringe that Nurse Green had tried to inject Sergeant Barnes with.

"…really is quite diabolical. And very potent. I hate to think of the damage she could have done with this. A single drop would be enough to send a man cuckoo for hours, and she gave significantly more than a drop to Sergeant Barnes, when she first injected him. I'd guess there's probably double in this syringe; enough to kill him in just a few hours, and it wouldn't have been a pleasant death."

Despite the warmth of the day, Peggy shuddered at Howard's words. Though she often despaired over the soldiers in the camp, she didn't truly wish any of them real harm. Perhaps the occasional punch to the face or kick to the shins, but nothing serious, and she certainly didn't want any of them to die as Sergeant Barnes nearly had. They were damn lucky, all of them, that Sergeant Barnes had survived. That Nurse Green had tried to finish the job. Otherwise, they never would have discovered how Barnes had become sick, and Nurse Green would have remained free to go about her nefarious business.

"Agent Carter, how goes the interrogation?" Colonel Phillips asked, turning his grey eyes to her.

"Not well," she admitted. "I've tried goading, threatening, belittling, and a dozen other techniques short of physical torture, but she won't talk. Dr. Peacock has determined she doesn't have a cyanide pill embedded in her teeth, though, which tells us one thing."

"She's not HYDRA," said Stark.

" _Probably_ not HYDRA," Phillips amended. "Those people are so twisted there's no telling how duplicitous they are. But admittedly, it's more than likely she's just a regular Nazi spy."

"Let me give the interrogation a try, Colonel."

"You?" Peggy scoffed. "Interrogate someone? What do you plan to do, talk her ear off?"

"Of course not. But I've been looking for a test subject for my truth-serum, and for some reason it's been difficult finding volunteers from amongst the troops." Stark leant forward, his gaze fixed on the colonel's face. "Just gimme a couple of hours, Colonel. I should know by then whether the serum's going to work. And if it doesn't, it's not as if we've lost anything by trying, right?"

"What if your serum poisons her, and she dies?" Peggy asked. Brilliant as Howard claimed to be, his prototypes didn't always work as intended. His first incarnation of the truth serum had actually had the opposite effect. Annoyingly, Sergeants Barnes and Wells had found a use for that, to keep the HYDRA troops from radioing for help after they infiltrated the last bunker. She still hadn't discovered how they'd learnt about Howard's failed truth-serum in the first place.

"C'mon, Peg, have a little faith! I didn't poison Sergeant Barnes, did I?"

"Alright," Phillips agreed. "You can have a shot. Let me know if she starts to talk, no matter what language it's in."

After Stark left, Peggy pursed her lips as she watched Phillips toy with the syringe, his finger tracing the cap as if memorising its shape. The faraway look in his eyes suggested he hadn't realised Peggy was still there. Time and her astute powers of observation had taught her to read the colonel's moods; he showed his irritation openly, but everything else was buried much deeper. In many ways, he was the perfect CO for the SSR. Right now, the look on his face troubled her. She'd seen that well-hidden desperation before, and it usually boded ill for somebody.

"You're planning something, sir," she said, jolting him out of his reverie.

"I'm always planning something, Agent Carter, you should know that by now," he snapped without any true anger.

"Yes, but you don't usually look this troubled about it." In the early days of the SSR, he'd been typically mannish about the things that troubled him. Sat on them until he was red in the face and refused to talk about them with anybody. It had taken Peggy nearly two years to convince him that not only could she be trusted, it was often in his best interests to trust her. The nature of their organisation's existence demanded secrecy, but secrets had a way of weighing a man down. And a woman too, for that matter.

"If I wanted a psychological evaluation about my state of mind, I would've asked for one," he grumbled.

"Can I be of any help?" she asked. Again, experience had been an excellent teacher. Phillips didn't like people prying; offering help put the cards back in his hands. Let him know that he didn't need to do everything alone.

"No." He gave a quiet grunt as he held up the syringe. "I can't help but wonder whether a taste of her own medicine might loosen Miss Green's tongue."

"And send her doolally. It would be unethical, sir." Not that she had much of a problem with 'unethical,' in this case. Nurse Green had very nearly killed Sergeant Barnes, and was making her best attempt to try again. Giving the fake nurse the same injection she'd tried to give the sergeant would be rather poetic.

"I know. But I don't give a damn about ethics, Agent Carter. I give a damn about completing our mission and winning this war. And right now, I need to know whether or not Nurse Green was working alone. Sergeant Barnes overheard her talking to _somebody_ , and I'm pretty damn sure she wasn't talking to herself."

She nodded in understanding. A couple of nights ago, she'd told Sergeant Wells that this mission was bigger than one man. That at any moment, any of them might be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice. If this mission was bigger than one man, it was definitely bigger than one woman, and if it meant getting some answers out of Nurse Green, Peggy was willing to stick the needle in the woman's arm herself.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Howard's truth-serum worked so well that twenty minutes after he'd administered it, he sent for Peggy and Colonel Phillips. When Peggy arrived at the quartermaster's tent, where Nurse Green was being kept bound to a chair and under guard, she found the woman blubbering incoherently, tears streaming from her eyes, whilst Stark and Phillips looked on.

"What the hell did you do to her?!" Peggy demanded of Howard. The woman was crying so much her makeup was running down her cheeks, leaving dark streaks, like tears of soot.

"I swear, I didn't lay a hand on her," said Stark, completely misinterpreting Peggy's accusation. "The truth-serum seems to induce talkativeness and truth-telling, but it's not targeted at a specific memory or event. Nurse Green just finished telling me how her older sister threw her pet cat out of the upper window of their house when they were children, just to see if cats really can land on their feet."

"Nurse Green," said Phillips, leaning down to peer at the sobbing woman, "what is your real name?"

"A—Astrid," the woman sniffed. "Astrid Bergmann." Her blue eyes went wide as the words left her lips. Peggy smiled.

 _Gotcha!_

"And your mission here?" Phillips asked.

"J—Just to spy. To gather intelligence."

"And to poison our men!" Peggy accused.

Nurse Green—Astrid—shook her head, her lips pressed close together, as if she was trying to keep something back. But Stark's serum was at work in her body. Even as she sat there, sweaty-faced, tear-stained, dishevelled and discomposed, the serum was affecting her mind. In the end, the answer came willingly.

"That was never my mission. But I had new orders. Someone here in camp. He made contact, gave me instructions, told me I had to help him create a new weapon, one that could affect enemy troops on a large scale."

On the arms of the chair to which she was bound, the woman's fingers curled into her hands, nails biting into her palms in a desperate attempt to stop the words, to silence her own betrayal. She began sobbing again, though Peggy suspected it was out of self-pity.

"Who's your contact here in the camp?" Phillips demanded. Astrid sobbed again and shook her head, so Phillips reached out and shook her shoulder. "Tell me who he is!"

"I don't know!" the spy wailed. "I never saw his face, and he never told me his name. But he knew the words, the secret phrase I was given so that I could identify a member of the Gestapo. He made me bring him things. He left notes beneath my pillow, encoded, telling me when and where to meet him. All he would tell me was that the Führer would be pleased with my work."

For one brief moment, Peggy pitied the dreadful woman. She knew all too well what it was like to be kept in the dark. To be given orders without explanations. To be expected to jump to obey. But then, Peggy had never tried to inject a man with a lethal dose of a psychogenic compound. The pity swiftly fled.

"Surely you must have some suspicions about who he is," she suggested.

Astrid's head jerked from side to side even as her mouth betrayed her. "I thought he was one of the soldiers from Colonel Hawkswell's task force. The notes only appeared after we met up with the Colonel and his infantry regiments. I tried to identify his handwriting, but I couldn't find a match."

"How did you make the compound which nearly killed Sergeant Barnes?" asked Stark.

"I d—didn't! I was instructed to bring ingredients. I left my perfume bottle, and each time it was added to."

"Your perfume bottle?"

"It's where the compound is kept," Astrid said miserably. "In my footlocker."

Colonel Phillips glanced up at Peggy, but he didn't have to say a word. Even before he could open his mouth, she was on her way out of the tent. She knew what was at stake. She knew how dangerous it would be if that perfume bottle fell into the wrong hands.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

It wasn't even dinner time yet, and Bucky was already in trouble again.

At least, that's what he'd thought when he'd been summoned to the command tent. That had been half an hour ago. In the half hour since, Colonel Phillips had told him a story. About how the real Marielle Green had been buried in a deep grave in her home state. How the German spy, Astrid Bergmann, medically trained and inducted by the Gestapo, had stolen the dead woman's identity. How she'd signed up, been sent to Europe, and had been attached to the SSR.

It was frightening to think that it could happen so easily. German intelligence had gathered all the data they needed to allow them to plant someone within the military's ranks, and they'd done it without raising any suspicions because medical staff were generally above suspicion.

More frightening, though, was the next part of the tale. That Nurse Green—Astrid Bergmann—hadn't worked alone. That she'd been in contact with another spy in the camp. Agent Carter had then produced a perfume bottle, and explained how the compound had been created piece by piece. It was the very same perfume bottle Bucky had once held in his hands, and he shuddered to think of how close he had come to discovering it by accident. If only he'd dropped that bottle, back when he'd infiltrated the women's tent in search of _Nicely Spiced_.

Now that Bucky had the answers to all the questions he'd been pondering, he kinda wished he was still in the dark. Things were easier, in the dark. Less worrying.

"Sir, I appreciate you telling me all of this," Bucky said at least. "But… why are you telling me all of this?" Until now, Phillips had hardly been forthcoming with answers. The whole damn SSR seemed to be about keeping secrets.

"Because we have a serious problem, Sergeant Barnes," said Phillips, "and the number of people I can trust with this information is frighteningly small. I can't let this mission continue with a spy in our midst. Too much could go wrong. We're going to have to find a way to flush him out, and since they almost killed you for overhearing their conversation, I'm going to assume you're not the spy."

"Of course I'm not the spy!" he spluttered. The fact that Phillips had even considered it was ludicrous! If Bucky were a spy, he'd be about the worst damn spy in the whole world, after exposing his own co-conspirator and having himself almost murdered.

"You would be surprised at some of the things spies do to win the trust of their dupes," said Agent Carter, as if reading his mind. She and Stark were present for the meeting, but nobody else was; not even Colonel Hawkswell. Did Phillips suspect _him_ , too? If so, he was even more paranoid than Wells!

"There are a few things we know for certain," said Phillips. "We know that Astrid Bergmann was sent to spy on us. We know that she received new orders from someone within camp. We know she believes the second spy is someone from one of the infantry regiments, because the notes only started arriving after Hawkswell's task force joined us—however, that could have been a result of the spy biding his time and hoping to make it appear that he was from one of the infantry regiments. We're also pretty sure that neither of the spies is HYDRA; they were planning to wait until after we'd taken out Schmidt's communication bunkers here before poisoning our water supply with the psychogenic compound. Your actions in overhearing their conversation forced their hand and exposed their plan."

"We also know," Stark picked up, "that whoever the spy is, he's got a background in science. The compound he created is very complex; definitely not something a guy with only a standard high school diploma could create. The question is, apart from me, who in this camp has the knowledge to cobble together such a deadly concoction?"

Bucky's thoughts went immediately to the syndicate. To Davies and his co-conspirators with their illegal moonshine still and ability to get their hands on pretty much anything they wanted or needed. The number of people capable of creating a deadly compound was probably significantly higher than Stark suspected.

"Until now, we've compartmentalised out of necessity," Phillips said, "but clearly there are still flaws in our security. Agent Carter, I want you to review camp procedures. Until this spy is found, I want security so tight that a man can't even visit the pits without three other people knowing about it."

"Sir, I can vouch for a number of the 107th," Bucky said.

"This isn't a matter of trust, Sergeant," said Agent Carter. Her frosty exterior may have melted a little in the wake of his almost-dying, but now that he'd been released from hospital she was back to cool professionalism. "By their very nature, spies are duplicitous. It could be anybody. Literally, anybody."

"Except probably the nurses," said Stark. "Putting two spies in the same area has gotta be risky. But I'm more than happy to question the nurses personally, if you'd like to allay any further suspicions against them, Colonel."

Peggy rolled her eyes, and Phillips ignored the suggestion as he turned back to Bucky.

"Agent Carter is right. As far as we know, it could be anyone, even Colonel Hawkswell." Yup. He was definitely even more paranoid than Wells. "Now, I'm starting to put together a plan to flush this spy out, but until we know who it is, nobody outside of his tent is above suspicion. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Two days ago, he would have believed every single man in the 107th capable of being a Nazi spy. Now, he couldn't believe it of _any_ of them. Didn't _want_ to believe it. The men he knew were real. Genuine. Carrot and his girl, Samantha. Franklin's odd way of stirring his coffee. Davies' methods of making the impossible happen. Biggs with his sleepwalking. Gusty's nervous flatulence. Wells and all his bullshit. Those men were his friends, and the idea of one of them being a spy… it was ludicrous. Easier to believe it of Colonel Hawkswell.

"Good." The colonel turned to Stark and Carter, and Bucky could almost _see_ the gears in his mind turning. "Recover all the SSR-01s. I don't want to take any chances. Bring me the three Project candidates, and our friends from the 9th. It's time to put my plan into motion and see if we can snare ourselves a Nazi."

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: That's not actually how you check for tapeworms. Nurse Madeley is just very clever. If you suspect you have a tapeworm, please see your friendly neighbourhood physician._


	41. In Plain Sight

We Were Soldiers

 _41\. In Plain Sight_

Bucky quickly learnt that Colonel Phillips did not take Nazi spies lightly. Less than an hour after issuing his instructions, Hodge, Hernandez and Robertson were standing at attention in the command tent, looking twitchy and exuding guilt. Bucky couldn't blame them; everybody was guilty of something. Even Carrot had the guilt of Stark's pilfered Scotch weighing eternally on his conscience. No doubt the three men were trying to work out which act had gotten them summoned to the command tent along with one of their sergeants.

Three men from the 9th had been brought along, too. Unlike the men from the 107th, they didn't stand to attention. They didn't exude guilt. In fact, they stood at their ease, and if they were at all uncertain about why they'd been brought here, they didn't show it.

Stark had recovered the other five SSR-01 rifles. Bucky's was still being fixed following its use as a glorified crutch—a fact which Stark lamented loudly, several times, until everybody else ignored him and he was left grumbling to himself.

"Sir," said Agent Carter, without preamble, "I've reviewed camp security and have a couple of suggestions. First, we should randomise sentry duty. Nobody should know until we make camp exactly who will be guarding at night. And the men in the foxholes should not be from the same regiment; men who are familiar with each other may overlook odd behaviour. As well, until this situation is resolved, nobody should go anywhere without reporting their destination to their senior officer, and nobody should go anywhere alone. I recommend two men as escorts, to minimise the risk of an enemy agent overpowering his guard."

It sounded drastic, but Phillips merely nodded. "Very good. Anything else?"

What else could there be? Agent Carter had the place as secure as Fort Knox. But, apparently, it could be even more secure.

"Yes. We should set a guard on all food stores, gasoline supplies, the camp's water supplies, the medical supply tent and the quartermaster's store. As well, men who aren't on sentry duty should be forbidden from carrying their rifles outside their barracks tents; sidearms only. At the end of every march, the petrol should be drained from every vehicle and stored away from the motor pool. Yourself, Mr. Stark and Colonel Hawkswell should have an armed guard at all times. Two men from different regiments."

Fort Knox had nothing on Agent Carter.

"Don't you think that's a bit over the top?" Bucky asked her. He received a frosty glare in return.

"Sergeant, you yourself were almost killed—twice—by one spy," she pointed out. "I would think you, of all people, would appreciate the need for enhanced security measures, especially when a single act of sabotage could destroy everything we came here to do. The loss of our commanding officers, or an explosion of the petrol or munitions stores, would be disastrous. We've been operating under the assumption that our presence here has been a secret. Clearly that is no longer the case, and we have no idea who else that information has been communicated to."

Bucky held up his hands to halt the onslaught. "Alright, alright, I get the point."

Colonel Phillips stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back as he took in Bucky and the rest of the men. How he'd managed to keep Colonel Hawkswell out of this, Bucky had no idea, but he guessed Hawkswell must be spitting flames right about now.

"Men," barked Phillips, and the three from the 107th straightened up a little more. "As you are no doubt already aware, our camp has been infiltrated by a Nazi spy. This spy attempted to kill Sergeant Barnes. Luckily, she failed. But we now know she wasn't working alone." He looked around, at the faces of each man. The three SSR recruits hadn't been with the 107th as long as the rest of his friends, but Bucky was proud that none of them flinched under the Colonel's hard gaze. "I personally recruited each of you from your regiments, and I'm going to assume that if the Nazis had managed to plant an agent at the candidate level of Project Rebirth, they would not have needed to use Senator Brandt to later sneak in a second agent to assassinate Dr. Erskine."

 _Huh_? Project Rebirth? Senator Brandt? Dr. Erskine? What the hell did all those things mean?

"Therefore," Phillips continued, "I'm also going to assume that none of you are spies, which means the people present in this tent, right now, are the only ones I can be assured of not being enemy agents. With that in mind—"

Bucky looked at the men of the 9th Infantry. Only three had been brought here, out of the thirty or so who'd been with the SSR right from the start. Why these three? And why wasn't their sergeant, Haven, here with them too? Why would the colonel think three privates above suspicion, but not their sergeant? Bucky suspected he'd get his head chewed off for opening his mouth, but right now, he didn't care.

"Excuse me, sir, but why do you trust these men, in particular, from the 9th?"

"Because, Sergeant Barnes, these are the Germans in my camp that _I know about._ "

As Bucky's eyes danced over the men, a piece of the puzzle fell into place. _Of course!_ The Germans they'd been leaving to run the HYDRA bunkers had come with Colonel Hawkswell's task force, but Bucky had never even seen them during the marches, or during meal times. It was as if they'd disappeared into thin air. No wonder he and Wells hadn't been able to find them—they'd been dressed up as members of the 9th Infantry! Probably for their safety, as well as the camp's. And probably nobody other than the 9th Infantry themselves knew about the Germans in their midst. That was probably why Phillips never sent the 9th out of camp. Because even though he'd compartmentalised everything, he was still damn paranoid. So he used the 107th and the 69th for combat missions and scouting, and kept the 9th close to home.

"Stark," Phillips said, when no more questions were forthcoming, "how much of that truth-serum do you have left?"

"Not enough, Colonel, if you're thinking of testing the entire camp."

"Enough to randomly test a dozen or two?"

Stark stroked his chin in thought. "Yeah, as long as it's no more than two dozen. But Colonel, the chances of us catching the spy in randomised testing are… well, phenomenally low."

"We don't need to catch him, Stark. When you're hunting wild ducks, you don't send your dog out into the field to catch a duck; you send him to flush the duck out so you can shoot it. All we need our spy to believe is that we're performing randomised testing, and that we have more of your truth-serum than we actually do."

"You want to force him to run," Agent Carter said. Her dark brown eyes were animated by a sparkle of excitement, and not for the first time, Bucky was able to appreciate just how attractive she was. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he mentally chided himself. _Head in the game, Barnes. You can appreciate Carter later; right now, focus on this spy business._

"Exactly," said Phillips. "Sooner or later, the risk of getting caught is going to outweigh the reward of staying put, and our spy's going to break. He'll have to cut and run, or risk being picked for randomised testing; especially if he thinks we have a healthy supply of the truth serum which got Ms. Bergmann spilling her guts. What do you think?" he asked, turning to the three German men.

They shared a glance before one of them spoke up. His English was marred by a strong accent, but Bucky _still_ didn't know whether the three remaining men were actual Germans, or Allied agents _pretending_ to be German.

"It is a sound plan, Colonel. But you shouldn't just spread a rumour of randomised testing… you should make it a reality. Interrogate a few of the men from each regiment. Let them undergo the serum, question them harshly, then return them to their barracks. They will go back and spread stories of what they endured, and it will help to fire the imagination of the man responsible for plotting against you."

"If I was a spy," Agent Carter mused aloud, "and at risk of being subjected to interrogation under the influence of Stark's truth serum, I would wait until nightfall. Use the cover of darkness to make my escape. Men in foxholes may not be enough to catch our spy, if he choose to flee at night."

"Now that," said Stark, "is something I think I can help with."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Remember," Bucky told the three privates from the 107th around the corner from their regiment's tent, "go in, get your stuff, and get out. If anybody talks to you, just reply as you normally would. And try not to do anything too suspicious. This has to look like a standard recon mission."

"We got it, Sarge," said Hodge.

"Yeah," Mex agreed. "From Colonel Phillips. And then from Agent Carter. We really don't need the same instructions three times. Well, maybe Hodge does."

"Hey!"

"Alright," Bucky sighed. "We'll meet outside the hospital tent in ten minutes."

The barracks was only half full when Bucky stepped inside. His eyes automatically scanned the faces of the soldiers reading their books, talking in small groups, polishing their boots, cleaning their guns… any of them could be a German spy. But still, the idea that one of the men he'd come to know and trust over the past few weeks might be an enemy agent—might even have ordered his death by overdose of that damn psycho-whatever compound—was a difficult pill to swallow.

"Hey, what's happening?" Wells asked. He dog-eared the corner of his book and sat up on his bed, blue eyes full of curiosity.

"Nothing," Bucky said, trying to sound at ease, instead of the increasing bundle of nerves he felt inside. "Just a recon."

"An hour ago, Stark was in here taking Tex's SSR-01 away. Then Agent Carter came in and practically hauled Tex, Hodge and Mex out by their family jewels. And now you're telling me that the three of them, led by a guy who looked like walking death 48 hours ago and only got discharged from the hospital earlier today, are going on a recon?"

"Yep."

Wells scoffed loudly. "That smells worse than something that came outta Gusty."

Bucky shrugged as he began packing his backpack for all he'd need for an overnight recon. Sleeping roll, blanket, waterproof poncho, toothbrush… it was just like that time he'd gone to summer camp. Except, the kids at summer camp didn't have to pack a box of spare ammo or a gun servicing kit.

"Y'know, Barnes, you're a terrible liar."

He tried to keep his head down as he packed his bag. Tried not to steal glances at Wells, watching from his bed. "I know." No point trying to deny it. The harder he tried to deny that he was lying, the more convinced Wells would be that he was.

"I'm not some buck private who doesn't notice he's being shelled unless someone tells him to find cover. I know something's going on, and I know you're thick in it."

Bucky continued packing in silence. What else could he say? He didn't think Wells was a Nazi spy, but Phillips had been very specific about not breathing a word about their orders. He wished he could bring Wells and a few of the others in on this, to have more people he trusted watching his back… but it wasn't his call.

"So that's how it's gonna be?" Wells said. "I saved your life, and you're just gonna let me sit in the dark?"

Bucky turned to face his friend. "Look," he said, "when you asked me to trust you, and inject that stuff into my leg, I did. Even though my mind was screaming at me that you were trying to trick me, trying to get me to hurt myself further, I trusted you. Now I'm asking you to do the same. You _know_ I'd tell you everything if it was my choice, but it's not. I just want you to trust that I'm doing what's best for everybody."

"Dammit, I knew that whole trust thing would come back to bite me on the ass one day," Wells scowled. "I should'a just knocked you out and carried you back."

"In your dreams, pal," Bucky scoffed. Just because he'd been crazy, didn't mean he'd forgotten everything his dad had taught him about fighting. Taking a seat on his bed, he faced his friend and lowered his voice. "No word of a lie, I'll tell you everything as soon as I get the chance. And don't try and hold 'I saved your life' over me, because have you _forgotten_ about that whole jeep-over-a-cliff thing? I figure this just about makes us even. Hell, when I was off on my crazy Nazi spy hunt, you even said that you wanted me to be able to look back and know that I saved my own life and didn't need you to do it for me." He flashed a grin at his fellow sergeant. "So, thanks for that."

"Fine. But next time your life needs saving, I'm doing it without your permission, before you get a chance to do it yourself."

"Yeah, that'll show me." He glanced down at his watch, at the seconds ticking by… and imagined the scowling face of Agent Carter, her voice all high and prissy as she complained about _those damned Americans, late again. Bloody men, etc etc._ "I really do have to go. Hopefully by the time I'm back, everything will have been sorted out. Do me a favour and try not to break everything while I'm gone, okay?"

"If I break things, it's only so that you can satisfy your obsessive need to fix things. Without me, you would have no _raison d'_ _être_."

"Uh-huh. You keep telling yourself that." He stood up and shouldered his backpack, then grabbed his barely-used M1 rifle. "See you soon."

He met the other three outside the hospital tent, and they set off east, out of the camp. The sentries had obviously been told to expect a scouting party to leave, because Bucky wasn't challenged as he left. Pretty soon they were out of sight of the tents, on an invisible path to a distant rendezvous point. They walked in silence, which was just how Bucky preferred it. His thoughts were still heavy with the weight of the plan… and the identity of the second spy.

Half an hour later they reached the rendezvous point. The purr of a jeep's engine reached Bucky's ears even before he saw the vehicle. Agent Carter was leaning against the vehicle's side, arms folded against her chest as she chewed her lower lip. She didn't glance at her watch as the group approached; she didn't need to. A novel of impatience was written all over her face.

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd gotten lost," she said, as the men dumped their backpacks on the ground. She reached into the back of the jeep and pulled out four long metal boxes. "Howard's made the modifications, and he asked me to remind you that his weapons are _not_ to be used as personal walking aids."

Bucky rolled his eyes. Stark was never gonna let him forget that. "Is everything else in place?"

Carter's head dipped in a curt nod. "Howard's already begun random testing of the men. He'll 'accidentally' let slip the knowledge that he's busy creating more of the truth-serum, so that everybody can be tested. Hopefully it will set a fire under our spy and smoke him out before he can do any real damage. I mean, any _more_ damage," she amended, with a guilty glance at Bucky. She picked up two of the boxes and handed them over to Bucky and Tex. "Sergeant Barnes, Private Robertson, you have three hours to make experts out of Privates Hodge and Hernandez. Best of luck."

And with that, she climbed back into the jeep, put it in gear, and drove off. No doubt she wanted to be back at camp, right in the middle of the action. She was probably hoping that their random testing would find the spy before night fell. And Bucky had to admit, he was kinda hoping that, too.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Who do you think it is, Sarge?" asked Hodge, as he sighted down the scope of the SSR-01 he'd been given temporary use of. He'd done better with the weapon than Bucky had hoped. So had Mex. Bucky and Tex had struggled a little; the new night-vision scope altered the balance and aim of the gun he'd once found so familiar. It was like relearning how to use a completely different weapon… one that was even more deadly, now that it had an enhanced sight. "The spy, I mean."

Bucky didn't look up from the pot of beans he was stirring over the fire. "I don't know." He didn't want to think about it. He just wanted to do his job, and go back to camp. For a couple of hours they'd practised with their sniper rifles, then settled down for a quiet dinner of beans and hardbread before they had to get into position. They'd purposely kept their campfire small, to be sure nobody from the camp saw the rising smoke. Even though the darkening evening was warm, they huddled around the fire, finding comfort in the smell of burning wood and cooking beans.

"Me, I think it's one of the soldiers from the 370th," Hodge continued. He put his SSR-01 down and fixed a derogatory smile on his face. "My Pap always said you never could trust a Nigger."

With a quiet snort, Bucky shook his head. "If anything, there's even _less_ chance of it being someone from the 370th," he said. "The Nazis are about as racist as it comes. Black spies don't exactly fit their model of white supremacy." Which meant the chances of it really being someone from the 107th increased.

"I reckon it's Doctor Peacock," said Mex. His dark eyes gleamed in the firelight. "Every time I see him he looks shifty, like he's up to something. Plus, it would take a genius at biology to cook up that poison that nearly killed you, right, Sarge?"

"Colonel Phillips says Dr. Peacock is Jewish."

"Really? Huh. I wouldn't have thought it to look at him. Alright, who's your money on, Tex?"

Tex gave a noncommittal shrug. "Ah bet it's someone ah've never met. There's hundreds of men in that camp, and it could be any one of them. Ah don't even know the names of everyone in the 107th."

Bucky's thoughts wandered back to the camp. To the men he saw every day but couldn't put names to. The strangers he ate beside, slept amongst and would one day be fighting with. Thank God they all wore…

"Tags," he said, glancing up at the faces of the other three. "How the hell did he get tags stamped?"

"Whaddya mean, Sarge?" asked Mex.

"The only way to Europe is through NYPOE, and you can't get through NYPOE without tags; the camp staff record _everything_. Which means the spy must've gone through boot camp with everyone else, and got his 'official' tags, and been shipped out here with the rest of the company. That means he could've been in place for _months._ Maybe even a year, or longer, depending on when he did his Basic. The 69th and half of the 107th had been in Plymouth for eight months by the time the other half of us got there."

"Now there's a comforting thought," Hodge grumbled. "Hell, it might not even be an enlisted man. Maybe it's an officer."

"Uh, Sarge, I think the beans are boiling," said Mex.

Bucky swore as he looked down into the pot and saw the beans bubbling over the top. He knew he'd filled the damn thing too full, but they'd all been hungry, and they had a long night ahead of them.

"Here, pass me your trays," he said.

After spooning out beans for the others, he took what was left in the bottom of the pot and didn't even bother with his serving tray; just tore up his hardbread and let it sink to the bottom of the slightly burnt beans. The conversation died away as they ate, and Bucky's thought went back to the camp again. The sun was getting low, which meant soon the men would be turning in for the night. Maybe they'd stay up late talking about the interrogations that Phillips had put some of their number through. Maybe they'd speak in hushed whispers about which of them was going to be questioned next. Maybe, like Hodge and the others, they'd talk about who they thought the spy was. Perhaps fights would break out over it.

But down there, in that camp, one of them would be thinking about getting out before he could be taken for questioning. If the random testing had caught the spy, Agent Carter would have sent word to them by now. The fact that she hadn't meant the spy was still down there, his identity still concealed. And when he finally broke, and decided to run, Bucky had to be ready to stop him.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

" _Don't get closer than two-hundred metres. We can't risk telling the men in the foxholes that you're out there, and if they see movement, they're going to shoot at you. Remember, they won't have the same night-vision capabilities that your SSRs do."_

Phillips' instructions drifted through Bucky's mind as he lay on the bare ground, peering down at the camp from his vantage point a short way above it. Through the scope of his rifle he could see the men sitting in their foxholes, and he made a mental note to suggest to the colonel tomorrow that foxholes shouldn't be dug in places they could be easily overlooked.

" _We need disabling shots, ideally. I'd prefer to capture that spy alive, but if you have to make a choice between taking him out and letting him go, don't hesitate to take him out."_

When the colonel had given the instruction, Bucky imagined it would be easy. That he'd have full view of the camp. That it would just be a matter of waiting for the guy to leave, and taking a shot at the appropriate moment.

The reality was much different. The rifle's scope was small, providing a limited field of view. Every time he took his eye away from it, he lost sight of the area he'd been monitoring, and had to waste time finding it again. Trees were a nuisance; their trunks interrupted his view, creating blind spots he couldn't see behind. The tents themselves often blocked his view of what was behind them, and seeing everything in a green wash was eerie, to say the least.

" _Everything's quiet on the east side,"_ Mex reported, for the hourly check in. His voice was quiet over the short-range radio; Bucky had turned the volume as far down as he dared, so that the intermittent crackle of static and voices wouldn't be heard by the men in the foxholes.

" _South quarter's A-OK,"_ Hodge added. _"And I have a great view of the women's tent. Too bad the flap's down for the night."_

" _Nothin' goin' on in the west side of the camp,"_ Tex spoke up. _"Just guys in foxholes. Kinda wish I was down there mahself; foxholes are comfier than the bare ground."_

"I know everything's been quiet so far, but don't let your guards down," Bucky told them over the radio. "And remember the colonel's orders; shoot to disable if you can. If you can't, shoot to kill."

?Again, Philips' words came echoing back from earlier in the day. _"If there's no action overnight, I'll send Agent Carter with some additional supplies in the morning. We might need to let this play out for a couple of days. If our spy hasn't cut and run after three nights, I'll bring you back and we'll try to come up with a different plan for flushing him out."_

Phillips was full of ideas. Hiding spies, flushing out spies, capturing spies, interrogating spies… maybe they ought to rename the Strategic Scientific Reserve to the Strategic Spy Reserve.

" _Don't worry, Sarge,"_ said Hodge. _"I have the eyes of a hawk and the reflexes of a cat. Nothing's getting past me tonight."_

Bucky shook his head. Try as he might, he just couldn't warm to Hodge. The guy was a braggart, and one of the biggest egos in the camp. Stark got away with it because he actually was a genius. Wells got away with it because he didn't actually believe his own bullshit. Hodge, on the other hand, was neither a genius, nor humble enough to admit that his bullshit was mostly that.

But Hodge was an issue for another time. Bucky shifted on the hard ground, trying to dislodge a stone that was poking through his jacket and into his abdomen. In the end, he gave up, and resigned himself to a long night of discomfort.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Agent Carter laced up her boots in the darkness and crept out of the women's tent so as not to wake the sleeping nurses. The early morning sun assaulted her eyes, and she squinted as she ran her gaze across the camp, looking for anything out of place. She'd _wanted_ to spend the night patrolling, but Phillips had shot that idea down. Said they needed to give the impression of 'business as usual.' He also didn't want to risk one of the men accidentally shooting her.

There had been no shots in the darkness. No calls for a medic, no requests for help, and no reports of a man taken into custody. Peggy had lain awake for most of the night, half-dressed, her pistol by the side of her bed, ready to spring up at a moment's notice. No springing had been required. That could mean only one of two things. Either they hadn't spooked the German spy enough to scare him into fleeing, or that he'd fled and not been captured as he left. She hoped to God it was the former.

The command tent wasn't exactly abuzz with activity, but there was more of it than Peggy had been expecting at this time in the morning. Stark was there—he'd probably chosen to coffee, rather than sleep—along with Phillips, and Sergeant Haven, of the 9th Infantry. The sergeant's posture was stiff, his moustached face barely concealing his agitation. Peggy picked up her pace.

"…just can't believe it, sir," Haven continued to Colonel Phillips, as Peggy arrived as unobtrusively as she could. "Corporal Durkin is a good man. A hero. He was the one who saved what's left of our regiment. He couldn't sleep, always got sea-sickness, and he was on his way back from the john when the submarine attacked the ship carrying us. He guided us up to the deck, avoiding the damaged side of the ship. If it wasn't for him, we would've drowned along with the crew and the rest of the regiment."

"Agent Carter," Phillips barked, and she stood quickly to attention. "It seems we have a man missing. Corporal Durkin wasn't in his bed this morning."

"His gear?" she asked.

Haven hesitated before answering. He never had liked answering to a woman. "His pack's gone, along with his guns. Everything else is still in the tent."

"Don't you find it odd," Stark said to the sergeant, "that the corporal just happened to be awake at the time your ship was attacked by a U-boat? And he just happened to get you all—and himself—to safety, thereby placing himself above suspicion?"

"Sir," Haven said, ignoring Stark as he turned back to Colonel Phillips. A pang of sympathy tore through Peggy's chest at the expression on his face. It was as if somebody had just told him his childhood pet dog had to be euthanised. "I'm telling you, there is absolutely no chance of Durkin being the spy you're looking for. I've known the man for years. We went to high school together. I've met his family at church picnics. They're good people, and Durkin is a good man. Until we were sent to Africa, the furthest from home he'd been was Chicago."

Peggy didn't have to be a mind reader to know what Phillips was thinking. His face had been an almost perpetual scowl since this whole business of German spies came up, and now his grey eyes were troubled as he ran through scenarios in his mind. She knew he respected Sergeant Haven as a steady, honest, if unimaginative man, and that he'd initially intended to use the 9th for capturing the comms bunkers, before the need to hide their own agents and compartmentalise the operation had become greater.

"Alright," Phillips said at last. "Agent Carter, organise search teams. Sweep the ground to a couple of hundred metres outside the perimeter."

"What should we be looking for, sir?" she asked.

"Signs of a struggle, a dropped button, tracks in the mud, fresh signs of digging. Anything at all that seems incongruous or out of place. If Durkin didn't run, he has to be _somewhere_. Question the men in the foxholes. Somebody must have seen something. Anybody not working a search is confined to their regiment's tent until Corporal Durkin is found." His grey eyes scanned their faces briefly before he turned to look at one of the pinned-up maps. "Tear this camp apart, if you have to."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky kept a bleary-eyed watch in the early afternoon soon, too dog-tired to move to somewhere more shaded. The other three men slept soundly nearby in their sleeping rolls; Hodge's snores were gentle and rhythmical, lulling Bucky's tired mind into a dreamy haze. An occasional word of Spanish mumbled by Hernandez pulled his mind _out_ of that haze, jarring him back to reality.

It had been an uneventful night. As the first rays of sun had begun creeping over the hills, they'd retreated back to their campsite, almost a mile away. There they'd made a quick breakfast of rations and water, then taken it in turns to keep watch and sleep. Bucky was starting to feel exhaustion set in from the previous days of gruelling punishment he'd endured. Rightfully, he ought to be getting some bedrest, and plenty of sleep to aid his recovery after almost dying. In truth, he knew bedrest was a luxury he could not be afforded right now. Not with an enemy spy on the loose.

The telltale sound of a motor jarred him from his latest round of battling against his own tired mind. Even before the jeep pulled up, he'd made his feet and was calling out for the others to wake. They did, with considerable grumbling as they grabbed their sidearms in case they were being attacked.

Their paranoid vigilance turned out to be unnecessary; Agent Carter was behind the wheel of the jeep, and as she pulled up, Bucky did not like the expression on her face one bit. The last time he'd seen that expression, she'd been rendered defenceless and left bound to a tree, and his immediate thought upon seeing it again was: _Oh god, what_ _'s Wells done now?_

"Sergeant," she snapped, as she got out of the vehicle, "did you or your men see anything last night?"

"No. We would have reported it if we did. Why? What's happened?"

"Last night, a soldier was killed," she said. "Murdered."

When Bucky felt something sharp bite into the palm of his right hand, he looked down and saw his fingers curled, nails digging into his own skin. He forced his fingers to relax as the images of countless faces flew through his mind.

"Who?"

"Corporal Durkin, from the 9th," she said, her voice a little gentler as she broke the news. Bucky felt relief flood his chest, even as he cursed himself for benefiting from another regiment's loss.

"Durkin!" Mex gasped, his brown eyes widening a fraction. "I played dice with him a few times. He seemed a good guy. What happened to him?"

"He was strangled," Carter said. She delivered the news through a clenched jaw, her voice laced with frustration. "His body was found stuffed into the back of a jeep, and covered with a tarp. He was probably drugged first, to prevent him crying out whilst he was killed. Howard suspects chloroform, or something like it. He and Doctor Peacock are still working on the autopsy."

"I thought you had the jeeps guarded?" Bucky asked.

Carter shook her head. A few locks fell free from their pins. She clearly hadn't had much time for personal grooming this morning. "The camp's petrol supplies were guarded, but since the jeeps were drained of their fuel, there seemed little need to keep a guard on them. They weren't going anywhere. Not without fuel."

"But why would somebody kill Durkin?" Mex insisted. "I mean, was he close to figuring out who the spy was? Or was he in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

"Colonel Phillips believes Durkin was killed in an attempt to frame him. Some of his kit was found in a second jeep, and it had been made to look like Durkin left in the night with some of his gear. The plan was probably to wait until the camp was moved, then bury his body at night. Now, who was covering the section of the camp with the 9th's tent in it?"

"Hodge," Bucky said.

Agent Carter pursed her lips and purposely _didn_ _'t_ look at Hodge. "Show me exactly where he was positioned last night."

So they piled into the jeep and took her to where Hodge had been keeping watch. As soon as they got there she grabbed one of the SSR-01 rifles and lay down on the ground, uncaring of how the dusty earth sullied her uniform, to peer through the scope. After a moment, she gave an impatient sigh and pushed herself to her feet. Bucky took the gun from her, and adopted the same position, glancing through the scope at the activity in the camp. The mood down there seemed muted. Hopefully Wells was taking care of the guys in the 107th. Trying to reassure them. To keep their spirits up.

And maybe tonight, pigs might fly.

"Just as I thought," she said. "A perfect view of the 9th's tent. How on earth did you manage to be up here and see _nothing,_ Private Hodge? Were you perhaps watching with your eyes closed? Did you nod off halfway through your shift? Or was the sight of a body being dragged through the camp something that you thought didn't warrant attention?"

A quick glance at Hodge's face showed it turning progressively redder. Last night, the man had bragged that nothing would get by him, and today they learned that a murder had happened on his watch. Maybe his face wouldn't be quite the same shade of beetroot if the dressing down came from Colonel Phillips, but Agent Carter had a particular penchant for belittling jabs. Sure, Hodge was an egotistical ass at times, but he was still a part of the 107th. He was still Bucky's responsibility.

"Hang on a moment, Agent Carter," he said, swinging his vision back down to the camp, to the area of the motor pool where the jeeps were kept. He could barely see anything, thanks to a dense screen of trees. "Give Private Hodge a break. There's no possible way of seeing the motor pool from this location, and seeing somebody leave the 9th's tent carrying a body would have meant he'd have to be looking at that exact spot at exactly the right time. We all had large areas to actively monitor, and if the spy struck whilst Hodge was looking at another section of his area, it would have been easy to make it to the motor pool from the 9th's tent without being seen by us or by the men in the foxholes. And I know none of us fell asleep, because we kept hourly check-ins over the radio." He pushed himself to his feet and handed off the SSR-01 to Tex, so that he could brush the dust and debris from his uniform. "But if it reassures you at all, I can take this position tonight. Maintain an extra vigilant watch on the 9th's tent."

She looked like she wanted to glare daggers and spit venom at his defence of Hodge, but she quickly leashed whatever anger or annoyance she was feeling to shake her head in decline of his offer.

"It's very unlikely the spy will strike in the same place twice. Keep to your original positions, and try to be more alert to any movement tonight."

"Guys, take a walk, give us five," Bucky said. They didn't need to be told twice; they set off roughly in the direction of their temporary campsite, giving Bucky a moment alone with one awkward, stubborn agent. Sometimes, she reminded him of Steve. "There's still one more undamaged SSR-01, down in the camp," he pointed out. "And it would be useful to have an extra pair of eyes up here."

"Sergeant, anybody wielding one of those weapons needs to know how to use it well enough to perform a disabling shot." Her deep brown eyes glared briefly in what felt like a challenge. "Do you know how many people have that level of skill with the weapon?"

"Probably just you," he admitted, and those deep brown eyes widened slightly. Perhaps she was surprised that he'd said it. Perhaps she'd been expecting him to push for Wells being given enough trust to keep a watch. But Bucky needed Wells down in the camp, keeping an eye on the men. Keeping them safe.

"I'm needed in the camp," she said. Probably didn't want to be more than a stone's throw away from whatever was going down. But Bucky had done enough combat missions now to know that you had to use everybody's strengths appropriately to ensure the success of a mission.

"No, you're not," he countered. He rushed on as she opened her mouth to object. "There are damn near eight hundred men in that camp, and to the best of our knowledge, all but one of them are loyal to the cause. But there are only four of us up here. Four of us to keep watch over the entire camp. Maybe down there is where you _want_ to be, but up here is where you _need_ to be. Your skills will be wasted down there."

"I will… consult… with Colonel Phillips," she grudgingly relented. "If he orders me to be up here, then I will follow his orders."

"Good. And one more thing." He could see the sigh of impatience that she swallowed, but she waited silently for him to continue. Maybe he'd earned himself some brownie points. "If the spy's resorting to murder, then you need to let Sergeant Wells, and Weiss, and the officers of the other regiments, know to stay alert during the night."

"If our plan is to succeed, it relies on maintaining an air of normalcy—"

He scoffed loudly. "C'mon, Agent Carter, you know better than anyone how fast rumours fly around a camp. By now, there's not a man or woman down there who doesn't know that a member of the 9th was killed last night. Everyone's gonna be on edge because of that, but if you don't let a few of the officers know what they need to be alert for, then you're complicit in the next murder that happens. And if I lose one of my men to this, I'm holding you responsible."

"I'll keep that in mind, Sergeant," she said, clambering back into the jeep. She hit first gear and revved the engine. Bucky winced. He suspected she'd somehow make him regret that last threat… but one way or the other, she was going to learn that Bucky Barnes was going to do whatever it took to keep his men safe and get them home. And if she had to learn that the hard way, so be it. "I trust you can find your way back to your campsite from here?"

She didn't wait for his response, merely set off back to camp, leaving him to choke on the dust of her departure.


	42. The Hunt

We Were Soldiers

 _42\. The Hunt_

Sentry duty was boring at the best of times, but at least in a foxhole you had someone else to talk to. Someone to laugh with, and bullshit with, and roll dice with. At least in a foxhole you weren't alone in the darkness, waiting tense, hoping that if you had to pull the trigger of your gun, you weren't going to shoot someone you knew.

Bucky fidgeted on the cold, bare ground. The sun's heat had long ago fled the rocks beneath him, and he'd been slowly stiffening in place for hours. At least in a foxhole, you could move around a bit. Stretch your legs. Move your arms. Work the cricks out of your neck. A week ago, Bucky had viewed foxholes with a sort of scornful disdain. Now, they seemed a luxury.

" _It's twelve o'clock, and all's well,"_ Mex said over the radio, a grin in his voice.

" _No movement here,"_ Tex agreed.

" _Camp's quiet from my view,"_ said Hodge.

" _And here as well,"_ Agent Carter added.

Bucky didn't bother trying to hide his smile as he pressed the 'transmit' button on the radio and said, "Nothing to report from my end." It seemed Colonel Phillips had agreed with Bucky that Carter would be more use behind the barrel of an SSR-01, watching from afar. He wondered how strongly she'd protested that order.

He swung his rifle back to the 107th's tent. It was in darkness, and had been for over an hour. Down there, the men would be falling asleep, while Wells and Weiss faked sleeping to stay alert in case the spy came calling. Hopefully the men would be safe tonight.

Two more hourly check-ins later, and some considerable time after his legs had gone numb, Bucky's radio crackled quietly with static as someone began transmitting. It was Hodge.

" _I got movement over here, Sarge."_ The excitement in his voice was palpable. Bucky could almost _taste_ it, all bitter and acrid over the musky, loamy spell of the vegetation around him. _"Three men, coming out of the 9th's tent. Not making any effort to conceal themselves. They're walkin', and chatting."_

"Can you see whether they're armed?" Bucky asked.

" _No, I just lost them. They've passed behind the command tent. Heading your way, Tex."_

" _Ah got 'em,"_ Private Robertson drawled. _"They've all got knives and sidearms. No rifles. They don't seem to be in a hurry. They're about to leave my sight; they'll be passing the 107th's tent any moment now, Sarge."_

Bucky licked his lips and swallowed, working moisture across his parched mouth. He closed his left eye, peering down his night-vision scope with his right, waiting patiently as his heart raced in his chest and the three soldiers strolled into his view, each one carrying a small flashlight. His left hand gripped his gun more tightly as the men approached the 107th's tent flap… then relaxed as they walked on by. The men continued towards the latrine pits, and Bucky slowly released the breath he'd been holding. He reached out for his radio again.

"It's okay, looks like they're just using the pits."

" _Keep an eye on them nonetheless,"_ Agent Carter instructed. As if it wasn't bad enough they had to shit into an open trench; now she wanted him to _watch others do it?_

"Yeah, okay."

He turned his rifle away by a small degree, to give whichever of them needed the pits a small measure of privacy. He didn't know the members of the 9th as well as he did some of the members of the other regiments. They tended to keep to themselves, probably because of those damn German agents hidden within their ranks. But one of the faces down there was strangely familiar… and he couldn't think why.

A flurry of movement drew his eye. He moved the rifle back, and his heart lurched. The man closest to the pit had drawn his knife and stabbed one of his guards in the back. The guard hadn't stood a chance; he'd turned away, to give the same privacy Bucky had. The knife was plunged deep, and even as he cried out, his attacker ripped out the knife and pulled the man backwards, sending him toppling into the pit.

The second guard was immediately alert; he dropped his flashlight and reached for his gun. The attacker was faster; he brought the knife around in a reverse grip, slashing the neck of the guard. As the man fell, Bucky didn't think; he acted. The attacker turned to run, and Bucky adjusted his aim. When the man stepped into his sight, he pulled the trigger. The bullet flew true, a clean hit, straight to the shoulder. But despite the shot, the man got to his feet and set off towards the periphery of the camp, disappearing into the trees before Bucky could make a second attempt.

"Two men down!" he shouted into his radio, as he pushed himself to his feet. Down in the camp, the commotion had not gone unnoticed. Nobody down there would've heard the report of his gun firing—the silencer Stark had put on it was too impressive for that—but the downed men had probably cried out, drawing attention. "We need to get down there, NOW!"

" _Colonel Phillips, we're coming in,"_ he heard Carter report over the radio. _"Tell the sentries to stand down. I repeat, tell the sentries to stand down; we don't want them shooting us."_

Bedlam met Bucky's eyes as he finished his three hundred metre dash and reached the camp's perimeter. The sentries may have been told to stand down, but a couple of them still trained their weapons on him until he was clearly in the light. He lifted his rifle's muzzle into an upright position, pointing the thing at the sky as he pushed his way through crowds of men pouring out from their tents.

"Send medics to the latrine pits!" he ordered, and calls of M _edic! Medic to the pits!_ was echoed across the camp.

Bucky reached the pits before the medics, and found a group from the 107th, whose tent was closest to the pits, doing what they could for the injured men. Wells and Franklin were kneeling beside the man whose neck had been slashed, trying to stem blood that was pouring out too quickly. Gusty and Weiss had jumped into the pit and were knee-deep in liquid, doing the same for the man with the back wound, whilst simultaneously holding his head above the layer of effluent so he didn't drown in shit and piss.

"We're gonna need a spinal support board down here," Weiss called out as Gusty offered reassuring words to the man whose head he was holding up.

That order, too, was passed down the line, but Bucky didn't get chance to ask where he was needed; Colonel Phillips arrived, along with Colonel Hawkswell, Howard Stark, and Sergeant Haven from the 9th.

"Sergeant Barnes, what the hell happened?" Phillips demanded.

"Sir, we saw three men from the 9th leave their tent and come to the pits. Then, one attacked the other two. Stabbed them and ran off. I managed to shoot him in the shoulder, which should slow him down."

"Haven?"

The moustached man paled beneath the colonel's gaze. "Sir, I gave permission for Private Rutter to use the pits, and told Privates Whittaker and Compton to escort him."

Suddenly, that face from Bucky's memory came back. As Agent Carter, Hodge, Hernandez and Tex arrived, preceded by a group of medics and nurses who took over care of the injured men, he realised where he'd seen the private before.

"He was in the hospital tent, the same day I was," he said, turning to Phillips and Carter. "The man who attacked the others… he went to have his boils lanced. I was so out of it with drugs and pain that I barely remembered him."

"Private Rutter is prone to boils," Haven confirmed.

"Colonel, he must've used that as an excuse to get close to the nurse's tent, and left the first note for Nurse Green before coming for treatment. And that night, when they met, I overheard them talking!"

"Colonel," said a new voice. Dr. Peacock was beside the man with the slashed throat, his white uniform awash with red. On the ground, the injured man's eyes and mouth were open in a silent stare. "I'm afraid Private Compton is dead." He gestured to the group of medics who were lifting the second private from the pits on a spinal board. "We'll do what we can for Private Whittaker, but we need to get him cleaned up and into surgery immediately."

"I'll arrange for additional oil lamps to be sent to the hospital," said Colonel Hawkswell. "And for the chaplain to see to Private Compton."

Phillips nodded. "We'll need teams to go after Rutter. There can be no doubt he's our spy. We need to find him and bring him back or put him down before he finds refuge."

"I can have men ready to go in five minutes," Bucky offered.

"No," said Haven. He stepped forward and rested his hand on his pistol. "The 9th should be the ones to go after him. He's killed two of my men."

"My men already have the experience with the SSR-01s. And no axe to grind."

Haven scowled at him. "Sergeant, if you think I would jeopardise—"

"The 107th will go," Phillips interrupted. "Sergeant Haven, you have an injured man here in camp, and you have footlockers to go through. Have Stark help you go through Rutter's, in case there are any nasty surprises waiting for you."

Haven looked like he wanted to object. Instead, he threw up a rigid salute and about-faced with the rest of his men.

"Sergeant Barnes, I don't have to tell you what's at stake here," Phillips said, when the 9th had gone, and the medics departed. "That man could expose our entire operation. We're behind enemy lines with no support, and if the Germans realise we're here and send in the _Luftwaffe_ , we don't stand a chance."

"Don't worry, sir, we'll find him."

"And I'll help," Agent Carter said, shouldering the SSR-01 she still carried.

Bucky knew better than to argue this time. Instead, he began sounding off men.

"Weiss and Biggs, you're with Agent Carter. Wells and Franklin, with Hodge. Gusty and Davies, with Mex. Carrot and Scott, with Tex. Hawkins and Jones, with me. Get cleaned up, grab your weapons and the essentials. No packs, no ration kits, canteens only; we're travelling light, and we're not coming back empty handed. Meet back here in ten minutes."

The men scrambled for the tent, and Phillips ordered the rest of the camp back to their beds. The dawn might be coming, but the night wasn't over yet.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

They jogged across the loose rocky ground, occasionally losing their balance, sometimes struggling to climb the hills, always cresting the rising ground slowly, carefully, making sure to keep low, to prevent their profiles standing out against the lightening skyline. The Nazi travelled fast despite being injured, and he didn't make it easy for them to follow him.

It hadn't been too difficult at first; there had been blood, lots of it. They found a few bloody rags, strips cut from a shirt to try and stem the flow of blood. But by the time they realised the rags had been left as a decoy, to lure them along false trails, they'd had to double back and lost valuable times. At first they'd travelled as a loose, large group, but now they'd split into their smaller teams, a few hundred metres apart, to cover the ground for any sign of their quarry.

" _Another bloody rag,"_ Weiss reported over his radio. _"Can't tell whether it's another decoy. Keep your eyes peeled."_

" _I have spots of blood over here, too,"_ Mex added, from east of Bucky's location.

"You gotta admire the way this guy works," Corporal Jones said to Bucky. "It must be exhausting him, doing all this criss-crossing and zig-zagging across the ground, laying false trails everywhere."

Bucky nodded. "I just wish we knew which of us was following the _real_ trail." He would've preferred it to be his own team. To give him the chance to finish what he started, and do it right this time. A disabling shot to prevent the guy running any further. Maybe something that might cause him to lose a leg. It was the least he deserved, after killing those two men. After almost killing Bucky, and maybe killing Whittaker. Which begged the question… what would Phillips do with the spy once he'd finished interrogating him?

Ten minutes after Weiss and Mex's report, Bucky halted to grab a quick drink from his flask. Jones and Hawkins weren't doing too bad, but Bucky was damn near exhausted. He'd seen too much action and had too little a recovery period, and a whole night without sleep on top of that. Now, the sun was rising above the horizon, and Bucky knew it was going to be another hot day. Hopefully that would work to their advantage more than Rutter's—or whatever the guy's real name was.

They jogged on. If there was one good thing to come from all of this, it was that he had been proven right. Not just to Phillips, and Carter, but to himself. The men of the 107th were not Nazi spies. His friend were not secretly deceiving him. They were good, honest men, and he'd been right to stand up for them in front of the brass. But how the hell had a Nazi spy gotten in with the 9th? He must've been undercover a hell of a long time. No wonder Phillips wanted him stopped. He could've been gathering intel since the moment America entered the war.

A small movement in the canyon below was his only warning. He dropped to the ground a split second before the loud _bang_ of a service pistol being fired shattered the stillness of the morning air. Behind him, Jones and Hawkins dropped too, grunting to expel the air from their lungs as they hit the deck. Bucky reached for his radio inside his jacket's inner pocket. Much as he wanted to be the one to take a second shot at Rutter, he didn't want to compromise the mission for his own personal desire, and his team were momentarily pinned down.

"He's here," Bucky said, transmitting to all teams. He pulled out his compass. "Just south of my location, in a canyon." Not that anybody knew where his location _was_ ; he'd lost visual contact with the other teams an hour ago, though he had glimpsed Tex's team briefly.

" _Already en route,"_ Wells reported. _"We heard the gunshot. Do you need medical?"_

"No, we're fine. But we're pinned down." He crawled forward and lifted his head, and was rewarded with the loud _BANG_ of another shot echoing around the canyon, so that it sounded like several shots. Nearby, the ground went _plink!_ and loose stone chippings went flying. He quickly retreated. "Yep, definitely pinned down. If a couple of other teams could circle around, that would be great."

All the other teams replied to confirm they were converging. How long that would take was anyone's guess.

"Did we bring any grenades?" Bucky asked the other two in his team.

Hawkins shook his head, whilst Jones asked, "Didn't the colonel want him in one piece?"

"Yeah, but we could'a used a grenade as a diversion. Guess it doesn't matter if we didn't bring any." Next time he was sent on a mission, he would take grenades, even if the mission didn't call for them. And maybe a whole damn boxful of Stark's 'toys', too.

A volley of gunfire made him jump. For a moment, the telltale _bangs_ of multiple M1s being fired, and the returning _bang_ of a pistol, were so loud that he couldn't even hear his own ragged breaths. When the shooting stopped, the radio crackled, Robertson's Texan twang reporting in.

" _Corporal Scott's been hit in the arm. It's not life-threatening, but he's losing blood."_

 _Shit._ "Alright Tex, Carrot, get Scott back to camp," Bucky said. He half-expected Weiss to countermand that order. Point out that if it wasn't life-threatening, Scott could go on. But Phillips had put Bucky in command of the mission, albeit in a rather informal, implicit way; maybe Weiss didn't want to rock the boat in the middle of a mission. Maybe he was waiting to see if Bucky could find a balance between being a good man and a good sergeant. "Did you get a shot at the guy with your SSR-01, Tex?"

" _Naw, Carrot and Scott were laying down cover fire for me to try, but Scott took a bullet before ah could get him in my sights. We'll make sure Scott gets back safe, Sarge."_

" _And if you wanna put an extra bullet in him just for me,"_ Scott panted over the radio, _"feel free."_

"We'll see you back at camp. Everyone else, proceed with caution. We might not be shooting to kill, but our target is."

The good man in him decided he would send back any man who got hit, regardless of how badly he was hurt. The good sergeant in him had been counting how many shots Rutter fired. Two at Bucky, and at least one at Scott. Rutter would run out of ammo before Bucky ran out of men.

A couple of dozen metres to Bucky's west, Wells' team arrived. Wells and Franklin were carrying their M1s, and Hodge the SSR-01 he'd had for the past couple of days. They all hit the deck, crawling forward on a line with Bucky's team, a short distance from the rise above the canyon. At this range, they didn't need radios.

"On three?" Wells asked. Bucky nodded, and waited for his fellow sergeant to count down. "Three, two, one."

The teams advanced together, cresting the hill and aiming down into the canyon. Bucky kept his SSR-01 low, giving himself a wider field of vision until he caught movement… but there was no movement. Rutter wasn't in the canyon any longer.

"Damn," Bucky growled. He held the radio up to his mouth. "We lost sight of the target. Anybody seen him?"

Everybody confirmed back that no, they hadn't seen him.

"Y'know," Wells sighed, "I'm getting damn tired of this guy."

"Who would'a thought a single Nazi could cause so much trouble?" asked Hawkins.

A wry smile tugged at Bucky's lips. "Let's hope our spies are causing as much trouble for _them._ "

Wells nodded at the path through the canyon. "You wanna take the low road? We can go high, cover you."

"Yeah, okay. But be careful; you'll be sitting ducks up there."

"Unless he's already gone high. In which case you'll be sitting ducks in that canyon."

The smile on Bucky's lips turned grim. "C'mon little ducks," he said to Hawkins and Jones. "Let's get back on the trail."

He wanted to make his aching limbs move faster, to jog, or run, to decrease the distance between themselves and their target, but he forced himself to walk, to proceed with caution. Basic training beaten into him—almost literally—at boot camp came tumbling back into his mind. Mantras designed to help keep troops alive were barked at him by the memories of uptight drill sergeants. Of course, none of those drill sergeants had ever chased a Nazi spy through a dry, hilly landscape in southern France. Did the rules of boot camp even apply, here?

" _Sarge, we got him!"_ Gusty's voice bubbled with excitement. _"Mex just shot him, a few hundred metres east of us."_

Bucky stopped and pulled out his map. "What's your location?" Gusty gave him the co-ordinates, and a thread of unease wormed its way through Bucky's stomach. "Be careful, Gusty," he said. "Remember, he's still got bullets in that gun, and a knife. Don't get close enough that he can shoot you. Wait until I get there before advancing."

" _Right, Sarge."_

He finally let himself run. The position Gusty had given him was just half a klick away, over another hilly ridge. No point walking, now. Their target was down; all they had to do was find a way to disarm him, and hope he didn't have a cyanide capsule in his jaw. Hope that he wouldn't put the muzzle of that pistol against his own head to stop himself being taken prisoner.

Bucky stepped up his pace.

His team and Wells' reached the location at the same time, and the first thing Bucky saw was Gusty's team and Weiss' team standing around a downed figure. Irritation bubbled within him; he'd told them not to get close. To wait until he arrived. Had Weiss countermanded that order? Instructed them to advance in Bucky's absence?

Mex turned to face him as he approached, his face lined with guilt and regret, his brown eyes devoid of all trace of his usual cheeky humour. "I'm sorry, Sarge." Bucky's eyes went immediately to the downed man. The pistol had fallen from his grip, and his eyes were closed in eternal sleep. A large patch of red was spreading from the centre of his chest. "I aimed for his leg, but my aim must've been off."

A snort from behind turned out to be Hodge, rolling his eyes. "I could'a made that shot."

Bucky hit Hodge with the sharpest glare of rebuke he could manage. He hadn't defended Hodge's shortcomings from Agent Carter just so the guy could lord it over somebody else's mistake. Hodge wilted under the glare.

"I mean, uh… maybe."

Weiss nudged the Rutter's leg with his boot, perhaps to make doubly sure he was dead. Then, he turned to Bucky, his grey eyes betraying nothing.

"Hope his lung was pierced, and he drowned in his own blood. You wanna bury him, or take him back?"

Bucky glanced to Agent Carter, but she merely watched him, and the rest of the men, as if assessing them. For a brief moment, he hated her for being so calm, so unperturbed, for making it all look so _easy_. Did nothing affect the damn woman?

"Take him back." How the hell were they going to carry the guy? "You think you can find some way for us to get him back to camp?"

Weiss shrugged. "Sure. I brought rope, I can rig up something I learnt the last time I was fightin' Germans. Though, you might wanna send a runner back to deliver the news to the colonels. If we're gonna hump this guy back to camp, he's gonna drip a trail of blood along the way. It'll lead anybody who picks it up straight to us. Brass might wanna move the camp real soon."

Bucky glanced to Wells, who nodded. "We'll go. By the time you get back, we'll be ready to move."

"I'll go with you," Agent Carter said, as she shouldered her SSR-01. Somehow, Wells managed to look completely magnanimous about that.

"I really am sorry, Sarge," said Mex, once Carter and company had departed.

Bucky gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Hernandez. Bringing him back alive was preferred, but Phillips gave the go-ahead to take him out, if necessary. The important thing is, we stopped him."

And hopefully, this would put an end to Nazi spies in their camp.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The medics took the body away for autopsy as soon as Bucky's team got back to camp. Most of the tents had been dismantled already, but Phillips wanted the autopsy done and the body in the ground before moving on. Bucky didn't need to report on how the mission had gone; Carter had already done that. All that was left was to hand over his SSR-01. Stark still didn't trust him entirely with this second rifle.

"Sir, what's going to happen to Nurse Green? I mean, Astrid Bergmann, or whatever her name really is," he asked Phillips, as the man oversaw the packing up of the command tent.

"It's too dangerous to take her with us," said Phillips. His cool gaze scanned the men packing up the camp as if trying to read their thoughts and make sure none of them were additional Germans spies. "And she'd be an unnecessary drain on resources."

Bucky's stomach lurched. Shooting a HYDRA soldier was one thing; those guys were cyanide-happy. They were also men. Granted, Nurse Green had tried to kill him… twice… but she was still a dame. Bucky's dad would be furious if Bucky had to kill a dame like that.

"We'll leave her in the care of one of our allies in the area," Phillips finished.

His stomach stopped lurching. "You mean the Maquis?" Those grey eyes snapped sharply to Bucky's face, a scowl already forming across the colonel's brow. "Stark said this is prime territory for the French Resistance. Come on, Colonel, after everything I've been through, you know you can trust me."

"Report to the hospital tent and have them check you over. I don't want to see you again until you've been declared fit for duty and had a second opinion to confirm it."

Bucky nearly groaned aloud. He should'a known not to push the colonel. Now, he was being punished.

"But sir, I'm fine—"

The colonel snorted so loudly that two nearby privates jumped at the noise. "Son, you look like hell. And I know what hell looks like; I've been there myself. After everything you've been through I want you to get some rest and make sure you're fit for duty. That's an order, Sergeant. I'll have you escorted to the medical tent, if necessary."

"That won't be necessary, sir. I'll go there right away."

"Good. Dismissed."

He saluted and left. At the hospital, the autopsy was well underway at the back of the tent. Nurse Klein directed Bucky to one of the furthest beds, so he didn't have to listen to the squishy, slicey, fleshy noises coming from the other side of the tent. The nurse disappeared whilst he settled himself comfortably and waiting to be poked and prodded and groped. When she returned, she was carrying a tray of cookies and a glass of milk.

"I _did_ say I'd put some aside for you, for when you were up to solid foods," she said, when he aimed a questioning glance at her.

He grinned. "Nurse Klein, you're the best. And you always were my favourite nurse."

She blushed. "Oh shush! Eat your cookies while I check you over."

Before she could start poking around in his mouth, he grabbed a cookie and took a huge bite, savouring the delicious crunchy sweetness. A couple of other nurses came in and began tidying things away ready for the move. One of them had a _very_ nice figure, and twinkling green eyes.

"Who's that nurse?" Bucky asked Nurse Klein, nodding at the young woman in question.

"Oh, Nurse Sanders. But I think she's a little sweet on Sergeant Wells."

Just damn typical. "Sergeant Wells is going to marry Agent Carter," he said very seriously. "He tells me so every day."

"I doubt that very much," Nurse Klein said, a girlish giggle escaping her lips. "Rumour has it Agent Carter already has a man waiting for her."

"You don't know for sure?"

"Agent Carter is a _very_ private person," Nurse Klein informed him. "She very rarely talks about her personal life."

"Is it the guy from whatever project she was working on previously, before coming to France?"

"Oh, I don't know about that. All I've heard about is his name: Steven."

"Huh." Quite a coincidence. But it was a pretty popular name. "My best pal back home's called Steven. It's a shame he's not here; I reckon he'd be right up Carter's street." Of course, the idea of Steve even talking to Agent Carter was completely crazy. He still got tongue-tied in the presence of pretty ones, and Carter was more than pretty.

"Do you miss your friend?"

"Every damn day. Pardon my French."

She gave him a sympathetic smile. Her face became much prettier, when she smiled. "I'm sure he misses you, too. Now, eat that cookie then drink up your milk. Colonel says to give you a full checkup, so you know what's coming next."

He sighed. It really was true that dames gave him nice things right before doing unpleasant things to him.

"Sure," he said. "But could you do me a favour? Warm up your hands, first."


	43. A Matter of Logic

We Were Soldiers

 _43\. A Matter of Logic_

"About fifty pounds a day," said Wells as he and Bucky crawled along the dusty ground. Behind them came Carrot and Gusty, their M1s laid across their arms as they crawled after their sergeants.

Bucky released his grip on his gun to pull his radio from his pocket, whilst Wells removed his backpack and took from it one of the signal jamming devices fashioned by Stark.

"Alright, we're in place," Bucky announced over the radio. The other two teams confirmed they, too, were ready. "Activate jammers. Tex, would you be so kind as to deal with the detector hooked up to that machine gun?"

" _It would be my pleasure, Sarge."_

As Tex began hunting for the detector from four hundred metres away, Bucky turned his head to glance at Wells beside him.

"Why fifty pounds a day?"

"Well, I figure one lumberjack oughta be able to chop down about five trees if he's doing it by hand—"

"Wait, why bring a lumberjack into this?"

"We need to set a benchmark, however hypothetical," Wells explained. "This is how you science. Ask Stark, if you don't believe me. So anyway, five trees if it's by hand—"

"What kind of trees?" Gusty whispered from behind. "I mean, if they're hardwood trees, they're gonna take a lot longer than softwood."

Somewhere up in a nearby tree, something went _'plink'_ and rained down bits of plastic and metal all over the clearing.

" _One detector dealt with, as requested."_

"Good work, Tex. Jones: stick."

Across the other side of the clearing, a stick with a face was raised from the ground and waved around. The machine gun above the bunker didn't react.

"We're moving in," Bucky said. "Watch our six." He wished he could give the order to start digging holes, but he didn't wanna get cocky. It would be just his luck that he'd order holes dug, and something would go horribly wrong.

He pushed himself to his feet, and the three members of his team joined him in running in a crouch to the nearby trench.

"I don't know what kinda wood," Wells continued as they slid into the trench. "Softwood, I guess. Whatever's easiest to chop." He stopped by the bunker door and pulled Stark's universal key from his pack. "Anyway, a lumberjack doing it by hand, I reckon five trees per day, but once those trees are down he's gotta start chopping them up, and that sounds like a lot of work. If he chops for twelve hours straight, I reckon he's doing about 220 pounds." The key was attached to the door, and the 'unlock' button pressed. Things whirred as it went to work. "But that's a man, and if he's a lumberjack, probably a big man. When you factor in the tree-to-weight ratio—"

Bucky snorted loudly as he thumbed the safety catch on his M1. "You don't know a damn thing about lumberjacking, Wells."

"I know 'lumberjacking' ain't a word, _Barnes._ "

The bunker door opened silently, and Bucky reached out to push it wide enough for them to enter two abreast. As they stepped into the darkness, they activated the flashlights on their helmets. Helmet accessories did not come as standard, but Stark had 'adapted' them. Bucky suspect he'd just copied off what miners had been doing for years.

"Um, Sarge?" Carrot whispered, as they crept down the dim corridor guided only by the lights on their helmets. "Just what _is_ a woodchuck, anyway?"

Bucky didn't get to answer, because the door of the HYDRA bunk room opened with a creak, and he turned to shoot the man who stepped out. The look on the guy's face as he ate a volley of bullets was one of pure shock.

The sound drew more men; one from the bunk room, and two from the dining room. They fell easily, too few and too disorganised to form a counter-attack. Then again, they probably hadn't expected someone to come sneaking into their secret, well-defended bunker.

"It's some kinda beaver, probably," said Gusty, as they advanced towards the comms room.

At the door, Bucky stood to one side, and Wells to the other. He nodded at Gusty and Carrot, then pushed the door open. The comms officer leapt to his feet, a pistol already in his hands. He was too slow.

"Auf wiedersehen," Gusty said, as he put an extra couple of bullets into the dying man. He glanced up at the others. "That's German for 'goodbye.'"

One of Bucky's eyebrows curved up in surprise. "You speak German, Gusty?"

"No, but Franklin knows a few phrases, and taught me a couple. You wanna know how to ask for a yellow crayon?"

"No," Wells snorted humourlessly. "I really don't. Now, get Tex on the radio. He's one of those country types. He'll know what a woodchuck is."

Bucky lifted the radio to his mouth. "Boys, start digging holes. And, Tex? What's a woodchuck?"

" _Beats me,_ " the Texan drawled back. _"Ah only knows about what ah've hunted, and ah ain't never hunted no woodchuck."_

"I still say it's some kinda beaver," said Gusty.

"Go disable that MG properly," Bucky told him. Gusty set off towards the small door that led to the MG's fortified position above. "Let's get these bodies out of here," he told the other two. As Carrot and Wells made a start on dragging dead Germans out, Bucky brought the radio up one last time. "Jones, send in our Kraut friend. Might as well make himself comfortable while we clean up."

Phillips had relaxed his paranoia a little. Instead of making men from the 107th march to the bunker, take it, march back to report their success, then escort one of the German agents back to the bunker, and then finally come back again, he'd let them take the agent with them. Probably less worried they'd get the guy killed, now that they'd already succeeded at this a few times. Maybe Phillips was coming to understand that despite their reputation, the 107th weren't quite the incompetent joke the other regiments seemed to believe.

"MG's disabled, Sarge," Gusty reported as he climbed down the vertical metal ladder. "You think we'll have many of these missions left, after today?"

"Well, there are only two of those German agents left at camp, so I guess it's nearly over."

A sad frown drew itself across Gusty's face. "That's a shame. I'm gonna miss putting bullets in Nazis."

Bucky threw an arm around his shoulders and led him towards the comms room door. They stepped over the smear of blood left behind after the comms officer had been dragged out.

"There are always more Nazis, and always more bullets. I'm sure the colonel will have us in the thick of things soon enough. Now, go help the guys dig holes."

"Aw, Sarge, you know I hate digging graves for these murderers."

"Yeah, but the sooner we get them buried, the sooner we'll be back at camp, and the sooner you'll be able to get those blisters on your heels bandaged up at the hospital."

The thought of seeing Nurse Klein did it.

"Good point. I love digging holes. Reminds me of being a kid, when I'd go to the beach and build sandcastles with my pals."

As Bucky watched Gusty leave, a familiar heaviness settled in his chest. Ever since they'd lost Tipper, Gusty had been a harder man, at least in combat. He still laughed and smiled in the regiment's tent, he still joined in with the banter and occasionally blushed when somebody saw him walking with Nurse Klein as they tried to find a few private moments, but as soon as he picked up a gun, his eyes became colder. Every man present was fully prepared to shoot Germans; Gusty was one of the few who actually seemed to enjoy it. And that made Bucky a little afraid for the guy's soul.

Wells appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the jamb as he shouldered his rifle.

"Jones says it's some sort of squirrel."

"Huh?"

"A woodchuck. He says it's a squirrel that lives in the ground. Sounds like bullshit to me, but apparently his family comes from Minnesota, and those things are a plague up there."

"Do you like killing?" Bucky asked, his thoughts still full of Gusty.

"Uh, killing? You mean, killing woodchucks?"

"Killing Germans. The men we shoot."

"Of course not," Wells snorted. A small stream of blood trickled towards him, and he stepped aside to avoid getting his boots wet. "But this is war. I wish there wasn't a war, but there is. If we don't kill enemy soldiers, we don't win it, and that's bad for everybody who isn't a freedom-hating, genocidal fascist zealot. But how did we suddenly go from the science of chucking wood, to the morality behind war?"

"I'm worried about Gusty," Bucky said. _And the rest of us_ , he didn't say. "He called these guys murderers… but aren't we?"

"Hell no." Wells stepped across the red stream and stopped in front of Bucky, his blue eyes full of self-assured confidence. "The way I see it, killing and murder are two different things. If we were shooting unarmed civilians, whether they be Americans, or French, or hell, even Germans, then that would be murder. But we're soldiers. These guys signed up—or were conscripted—just like we signed up. They know what war is, and they know the risks. Yes, we're killing, because you can't win a war without taking lives. But it's not murder. It's the job. And as long as I point my gun only at soldiers, never at civilians, I know that my conscience is clean."

Bucky nodded slowly. It made sense. He'd always thought of soldiers as attackers, but maybe they could be defenders, too. Not just of their way of life, but of those who couldn't defend themselves. The innocents, the civilians, the people who were caught in the middle or persecuted because of who they'd been born.

"I'm still worried about Gusty. I think he likes the killing."

"I think he likes revenge," Wells mused. "But we'll keep an eye on him. If he starts to like it too much, we can pull him off combat ops. At least until things start to really heat up. You never know; if we ever reach the front line, regardless of which direction we approach it from, we might be glad to have Gusty and his love of shooting Nazis."

"Yeah, maybe you're right. I guess I just worry too much."

Wells smiled. "That's because you care. The moment you stop worrying about the rest of us, I'll start worrying about _you_. Now, let's get out of this dump. You've still gotta put your bet in with Davies."

"'Bout what?"

"How much wood a woodchuck would chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood. It's high stakes, and we're gonna get the answer from Stark when we get back to camp."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

When Bucky arrived back at camp with his team, the first thing he noticed was a strange smell in the air. It was familiar, tickling at something in his memory, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Though the smell wasn't unpleasant, it was definitely odd. But he didn't have time to worry about strange smells; he had to deliver his mission report.

He and Wells took Davies, who was carrying a box of technical things sent back from the bunker for Stark, to the command tent to deliver the news.

"Good work, Sergeants," said Phillips. "You and your men can stand down for the next couple of days."

They saluted, and collected Davies and his box from outside the tent. Stark had given the German man they'd left behind details about what equipment he needed brought back, and the man had diligently extracted it whilst the 107th dug holes.

Stark was at work in his tent, heating some sort of mixture in a glass beaker over a spirit lamp. Bucky had no idea what the mixture was supposed to be; it was brown, and it bubbled in a way that was reminiscent of his mom's soup. Only, Mom's soup was never brown.

The man glanced up from behind his lab goggles as the three stepped into the shade of his tent. "Ah, Sergeants One and Two, in whichever order you prefer. What can I do for you today?"

"We brought you that equipment you wanted from the bunker we just took."

Stark grinned as he glanced over the box, then pointed at a nearby bench. "Excellent! Just put it over there, Pfc. Davies."

"Oh, c'mon," said Wells. "You can remember Davies' name, but not ours?"

"Hey, I can't control what information my brain chooses to retain." He picked up a pipette and stuck it into the mixture, sucking up a small amount. Then, he advanced on Bucky. "Please open your mouth and stick out your tongue."

Bucky very purposely did not open his mouth or stick out his tongue. He fixed Stark with a glare that told the scientist there was no chance in hell he was gettin' Bucky's mouth open.

"It's just a new recipe I'm trying out for non-melting chocolate, to replace that garbage they put in the ration packs."

Wells leant over the beaker on the spirit burner and wrinkled his nose at the mixture bubbling below. "It looks kinda melted to me."

"Once it's set, it won't melt in temperatures under a hundred and forty. But I need to know it tastes like chocolate before I commit to the recipe. C'mon Sergeant, open up. Where's your adventurous spirit?"

"I left it back at the barracks," Bucky said, and closed his mouth again before Stark could get any dumb ideas.

"Fine," Stark sighed, "I guess I'll just ask Agent Carter to try it for me. At least she's not a big scaredy— Hey, don't touch my stuff!" he scowled at Davies, who was rooting through a pile of what looked like junk on a tabletop.

Davies pulled out a long length of rubber tubing. "Can I have this?"

Stark's eyebrows lowered. "Depends what you want it for. If you're planning to use it for the purposes of strangulation, I'm gonna have to say no."

"It's for the still."

" _He_ knows about the still?" Wells scoffed.

"These chuckleheads know about the still?" Stark countered. "Fine, fine, take the tubing. And I'll have you know, Sergeant One-or-Two, that I own two-fifths of that still. I also have a quarter share in the eggs."

Davies shrugged when Bucky and Wells aimed questioning stares at him. "Sometimes it pays to have a rich, unscrupulous backer."

"I object. I have scruples… they're just not particularly high. Now, if you aren't gonna participate in my perfectly safe and legal experimental science, I've no use for you. Shoo. Leave me in peace."

"Alright, alright," Bucky said, backing away. "But could you at least tell us what that strange smell is?"

Stark eyed the three of them up. "Well, I wasn't gonna say anything, but you really should wash your uniforms more often. Not your fault, you're busy guys, but you shouldn't let your personal hygiene standards slip."

"I washed my uniform three days ago and it still smells of daisies," Wells scowled. "Manly daisies."

"That's not the smell I'm talking about," Bucky said. Maybe it was time to wash his uniform again, though. Three days was probably long enough, and he suspected his nose had grown immune to the smell of living in a tent with over a hundred other guys.

"Then it's probably the latrine pits."

"It's not the pits."

Stark put down his pipette and sniffed the air a few times. Finally, the light of understanding shone in his brown eyes. "Ahhhh, _that_ smell! Yes, that's fish."

"You made your chocolate smell like fish?" Wells grinned. "Glad you didn't try and make _me_ taste it."

"Of course I didn't make my chocolate smell like fish, you buffoon. My chocolate smells—and tastes—like chocolate. Probably. Hopefully. But whilst you and Other-Sergeant and your band of Merry Men were out neutralising German targets, Sergeant Weiss got permission to take a team fishing. Said he wanted a little variety in his diet. They brought back quite a catch, too. It's gonna be baked fish for dinner tonight."

"My mom occasionally cooked fish back home," Bucky said. "But it didn't smell much like this."

"That's because we in New York are lucky enough to live on the coast; most of our fish comes from the sea, and is naturally salty. It produces a very distinctive smell when cooked. Sergeant Weiss got these fish from a lake a few klicks away. Freshwater fish always tastes different. Now, if you come across Agent Carter out there, will you ask her to come see me?"

"Before we go," said Wells, "maybe you could answer a question for us. We wanted to know how much wood a woodchuck would chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood."

"Hardwood, or softwood?"

"I think we agreed on soft," Davies said.

"Well, I suppose it would depend on how much wood he was _inclined_ to chuck. I'll do some calculations and get back to you."

They left Stark to his suspicious-lookin' liquid chocolate and made their way to the mess tent. Sure, the fish didn't smell anything like the fish he'd had back home—it _was_ French fish, after all, and therefore probably a wonder it didn't smell naturally like garlic—but it was something different. A change from shit-on-a-shingle or spam and beans or mystery meat stew. Whatever vegetables were being boiled or steamed would be a welcome accompaniment to the fish.

Weiss and three of his men strolled by, geared up for a mission, their boots shiny and their weapons loaded. The elder sergeant gave them a knowing grin as he passed.

"You boys enjoy dinner. Catching those fish was a lot of hard work."

"Where are you going now?" Wells asked, eyeing up their M1s. "Bringing some venison to the table, too? Some wild boar, perhaps?"

"Recon. Brass want the camp moved in the morning. Somebody's gotta pave the way. Why should you boys get all the fun?"

"Fun," Bucky scoffed, when the team was out of earshot. "Like storming bunkers and shooting Nazis is fun."

"It might not be fun," said Davies, "but it's more interesting than recon, or foxhole duty."

"We can argue what's more fun later," said Wells. He rubbed his hands together and grinned at the mess tent. "I can't wait to try some of that baked fish."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Sergeant Weiss was dead.

Bucky heard the news when he woke the next morning. Pfc. Baker, who'd been part of the recon team, came to the regiment's tent blood-covered and exhausted, his eyes taking on a familiar, far-seeing stare as he explained how the mission had gone sideways.

"We travelled through the night, a steady pace that we knew would get us there and back on time. Had to divert around a village that wasn't on the maps. About eight klicks due east, we came to a small wooded area. You know the type, pine and cypress and low shrubs. Just as we'd gotten about halfway through it, we came under attack. German patrol. We didn't have much cover, so Weiss ordered us to fall back behind a rocky bluff. He was covering our retreat when he was hit. We managed to drag him back to the bluff, and used our grenades to launch a counter offensive. A bullet grazed Bramson's arm, but he wasn't too badly injured to keep shooting. We took care of the patrol, but Weiss' injuries were too severe. We brought his body back."

A dark cloud hung over the camp for the rest of the morning. Everybody had been prepared to move to a new site; now they prepared for another funeral service. It had been only three days since they'd buried Corporal Durkin and Private Compton from the 9th. Now it was the 107th's turn again.

Bucky picked at his breakfast, in no real mood to eat. A few others from his regiment seemed to feel the same way. Those who'd known Weiss the longest, and had been closest to him, pushed their SOS around their trays, watching the slivers of pale, meaty pink swim in the lake of pale, creamy white.

Finally, Bucky could stand looking at breakfast no longer. Alone, he left the mess and made his way across camp, to the chaplain's tent. Weiss' body had been dressed and laid out, to give people a chance to pay their respects in private before he was put in the ground. A few men were seated in the tent, heads bowed, cheeks damp. Bucky took a chair on an unoccupied row, and looked ahead to the still form of Sergeant Weiss.

Seeing dead bodies no longer made him feel queasy, as it had when he'd come across his first two, the day he'd found Matilda. Since then there had been Danzig, and Durkin, and Compton, and Rutter-the-German-spy. At least Weiss looked relatively peaceful. His face had been washed, his eyes closed, his short grey hair neatly combed. The chaplain had clad him in a clean, mostly unwrinkled dress uniform. If it weren't for the grey pallor of his face, he might be sleeping.

Conflicting emotions kicked up a storm in Bucky's stomach. He still hadn't forgiven Weiss for taking him down so easily after Bucky had punched him, nor for the callous things he'd said after Tipper's death. But part of Bucky suspected Weiss might have been right all along, and he hated that every time they lost someone, he became a little more accustomed to death. He was still trying to reconcile the desire to save as many men as he could with the knowledge that he would inevitably lose people. Still trying to figure out how to be a good sergeant and a good man without compromising either.

A shadow fell briefly across him as somebody took a seat a couple of chairs down. The shadow morphed into the broad-shouldered form of Sergeant Dum Dum Dugan, his hat in his hands as he lowered himself onto the chair.

"The 107th have lost another good man today," said Dugan quietly. A hint of anger twisted his words. "It's a damn shame." He made a cross sign over his chest, to make up for having cussed in what passed for a church.

"Did you know Sergeant Weiss well?"

"He wasn't much of a poker player, but I rolled dice with him a few times. I knew him enough to know that his loss is a kick in the teeth to the whole company. He was a man's man with a cool head on his shoulders and more experience under the belt than most of our officers combined. I'm sure he'll be greatly missed by his family."

 _His family._ Not just the 107th, but the wife and kids he'd left behind. Something like regret stabbed at Bucky's gut; Weiss had mentioned his family, but Bucky had never really asked about them. He knew that the guy's son and daughter were grown up, that he was protective of his kids as any father ought to be, but that was about all. And now, it was too late. He'd never get to ask those questions. To listen to stories about Weiss' kids growing up, about the trials they went through, the good times and the bad. Instead, Bucky had carried on his stupid, childish grudge, and never had chance to apologise for punching the guy.

Or rather, he'd had the chance, he just hadn't taken it. It had been three weeks since Tipper had been killed, and Bucky could've used any moment in those three weeks to say sorry. To try to make amends for losing his head. He'd never be able to do that, now.

"Did he tell you anything about them?" he asked Dugan.

"Just their names. His wife was Doreen. His kids were Lucinda and Thomas."

Lucinda and Thomas. Doreen. They'd lost their husband and father to a war that had already cost the world countless husbands and fathers, not to mention brothers and sisters, mothers and grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins. Would there be any families left, when this was was finally over? Or would countries keep being pulled into it, one by one, so that by the time it was finished, there was nobody left to remember what they were even fighting for?

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

They put Weiss in the ground. The camp moved. Life went on. The following morning, Bucky accompanied Carrot to the morning service at the chaplain's tent, and offered a silent prayer for Sergeant Weiss. He went to breakfast, and shovelled down what was on offer without letting it stay in his mouth long enough to actually taste it. He settled in for a day of boot-polishing and gun-cleaning, and around mid-morning, he and Wells were summoned to the command tent.

When they arrived, it wasn't Colonel Phillips they found there, but Colonel Hawkswell.

"Sir?" Wells ventured, as they both saluted. "You sent for us?"

"Yes. I have a mission for you. Something a little less challenging than the missions Colonel Phillips has been sending you on." Hawkswell's lips twisted very slightly in distaste. Bucky knew Hawkswell didn't know everything about those bunkers… hell, Bucky himself probably didn't know _everything_. But Colonel Hawkswell didn't like being kept in the dark. He was a stickler for doing things his way, when it didn't impede the SSR's mission.

"What's the mission, sir?" Bucky asked.

"The kitchen staff inform me that augmenting the camp's diet with locally sourced produce could extend our supplies and make us less dependent on re-supply drops. They're already in the process of identifying edible vegetation, and those fish Weiss brought back from his excursion were a good start." Bucky's heart sank. It didn't take Stark-levels of genius to know what was coming next. Hawkswell gestured to a map pinned to a cork board. "Two klicks north of here is a lake. I'd like you to go there and bring back as many fish as you can. The jeeps Sergeant Weiss used have plastic containers in the back, which can take fairly large loads. Be back by sunset."

Outside the tent, Bucky turned to Wells, and asked the question he knew was forming on his friend's lips.

"Have you ever been fishing before?"

"A couple of times. There's a creek near my uncle's ranch in Wyoming, but I only caught small fry. And that was quite some time ago. You?"

Bucky shook his head. "I sometimes went crawling the shores of the Hudson for shellfish, but I didn't find that many."

"That's okay, we'll take Tex. He's practically an expert when it comes to killing animals."

"But Sarge, ah don't know anything about fishin'," Tex complained five minutes later, when they put the suggestion to him. "Ah've only hunted on land."

"Think of it like water-hunting," Bucky told him.

"Y'wanna take a couple of the guys who went with Weiss last time?" Wells asked. "I mean, surely they know what they're doing."

Bucky shook his head. "No. Let's give them some peace and quiet." Those men had been particularly close to Weiss, and Bucky didn't want to force onto them the memory of their last day together. "We can handle this."

They picked a half-dozen of the 107th to accompany them, armed themselves in case they ran into German patrols en route, and found the three jeeps in question parked at the motor pool. The large plastic containers were wedged into the back pretty tight, and didn't slide around too much with the vehicles in motion.

It was a pleasant enough journey up to the lake. The ground was relatively even, and the heat of the sun was mitigated by sporadic white clouds blowing gently across the sky like fluffy lumps of cotton candy. Bucky couldn't remember ever seeing so much of the sky back home. New York's skyscrapers and apartment blocks seemed to reach up to the heavens, obscuring the horizon and making the world a much smaller place. Out here, the world felt bigger, and much, much emptier. A twinge of homesickness played across his heartstrings; he hadn't realised, until now, just how much he missed the bustle of a city. It felt like they'd been out in the sticks forever.

They stopped the jeeps a short distance from the lake shore and went the rest of the way on foot, advancing in a loose formation and making the most of what cover was available. It was quite a large lake; Bucky could just about see to the other side. Its shore was rocky, with a line of driftwood marking its highest point. Of human activity, there was no sign.

"Right," Bucky said, once they'd established there were no German patrols nearby. "Franklin, Hawkins, keep watch for unwelcome guests. Carrot, head back to the jeeps and bring the fishing poles. In fact, put the poles in one jeep, and drive it down here."

Carrot nodded and dashed off. He returned five minutes later, and hopped out of the jeep with a concerned frown on his face.

"Um, there aren't any poles."

"There's gotta be poles," said Wells. "That's how you do fishing. Even I know that."

They had a good hunt around the jeep for the poles, but couldn't find any. Bucky sent Tex and Hodge back for the other two jeeps, in case Carrot had missed the poles. But it turned out he hadn't missed them.

"How the hell are we going to catch fish without poles?!" Wells demanded.

"Are we sure there's no nets, either?" Franklin called over. "Nets would work."

"No nets," Bucky replied, after they'd triple-checked the vehicles. "Maybe Stark has the poles, and we should'a collected them before leaving."

"Maybe we oughta round 'em up, like cattle," said Tex, eyeing the water.

"That's stupid," Wells scoffed. "How do you round up fish?"

"Well, maybe a couple'a guys could wade out there and sorta drive 'em towards the shore, so we can pull 'em out by hand."

"We might as well give it a try," Bucky sighed. Otherwise they'd have to go back to camp and ask for fishing poles, and re-earn their reputation as incompetent bullshitters. "Hodge, Carrot, get out there and make a commotion."

Carrot paled. "But Sarge, I can't swim! What if it gets deep?"

"Alright, go keep an eye on the perimeter with Franklin. Hawkins, you fancy a dip?"

A childish grin spread across Hawkins' face. "Sure, Sarge. Water looks real nice in this heat."

Hawkins and Hodge took off their jackets and belts, kicked off their boots, stuffed their socks inside, and rolled up the legs of their pants so they could wade in without getting their clothes too sodden. They both looked down as they advanced towards thigh-height.

"See anything?" Wells called to them.

"Just the mud we're kicking up," said Hawkins. "I think there's— No, wait, there's a fish! It's heading your way, Hodge! Grab it, quick!"

"And don't forget to account for refraction!" yelled Wells.

Hodge tensed, poised like a cat ready to pounce. He waited, pale blue eyes scanning the water, until he judged the moment to be right. He dove down, hands out in front of him, and disappeared under the surface. When he came up a few seconds later, coughing and spluttering, his strawberry-blond hair plastered to his head, water liberally pouring off him, his hands were empty. Everybody jeered and laughed at his disappointed dampness.

"I lost it!"

"The water's too deep out there," said Bucky. "Try herding them towards the shore."

The next time the duo spotted a fish, they tried splashing around it, to frighten it to where the others were waiting on the shoreline. It turned out that, in water, fish were much faster than men. It escaped easily before it was close enough for Bucky to even see. He recalled the pair to shore, so they could come up with a new plan.

"Okay, this isn't rocket science," said Wells. "Weiss managed to bring back three jeepfuls of fish, and we're much younger and more excited about the prospect of not eating spam stew for the third week a row, than he was. Let's think it through logically. Over there we have a big heap of water. Over here we have three relatively small containers. Maybe we're looking at this backwards. Maybe the trick isn't to take the fish out of the water, but to take the water away from the fish."

"Jeez, you guys are hopeless," Davies scoffed from his position atop one of the jeeps. "Were they just handing out sergeants' chevrons the day you two got promoted?" He grabbed his pack, strode to the shore, opened the bag and took out a concussion grenade. He pulled out the pin and hurled it as far as he could into the lake before Bucky could even think of opening his mouth. As soon as it flew, everyone who wasn't Davies' hit the deck. Bucky's first thought was _Davies is crazy!_ His second thought was _Davies is fuckin_ _' crazy!_

The resulting _boom_ sent a plume of water high into the air, like one of those geysers Bucky had seen pictures of at school. What that famous one called? _Old Faithful._ It was a nice name. If Davies was deserving of a similar moniker, it would be _Old Crazy._ Even Wells looked shocked, and anything that shocked Wells was practically deserving of a reward. Waterfowl took to the wing, ducks and geese and small black birds honking and squawking and screeching as they tried to get away from the source of the noise as fast as their wings could carry them.

"Davies, what the hell?!" Wells demanded, as they all got back to their feet. He gestured at the lake. "That's nature. You can't blow up nature!"

Davies merely shrugged. "Do you have any idea of the force of the overpressure caused when a high energy TNT-filled demo grenade is detonated?"

"No."

"Me neither. But I bet it's pretty impressive." Davies peered at his fingernails, as if checking them for dirt. "And, as you know, sound travels considerably faster through water than it does air."

It didn't take long for the fish to start floating. Bucky had no idea whether they were dead, or just stunned from the force of the blast wave, but they weren't doing a whole lot of moving.

"You're welcome," Davies grinned.

Bucky could hardly complain. Hawkswell had sent them to get fish, and here were fish. He stripped off everything but his pants, and waded out to start collecting them up. Soon, they had one of the jeeps completely filled. He suspected the blast had scared away all the fish it hadn't managed to knock out, but if they went around to a different part of the lake, they could probably do this another couple of times, and bring back all the fish the kitchen staff needed.

Hodge struggled to shore with a long, large, vicious-looking fish that was yellowy-green and built like a torpedo. "Look at the teeth on this guy," he said, opening the fish's mouth to reveal rows of wickedly sharp, backwards-curving teeth.

Wells shuddered. "Imagine how much it would hurt if that guy got hold of your family jewels; it doesn't even look like it's capable of letting go. I swear, I'm never taking my pants off in a lake."

"Stick it in the crate with the others," Bucky told him. "Then let's see if we can catch some more. There are a lot of people at camp who'll be happy to see us get back with this lot."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

They pulled up outside the mess tent, and the kitchen staff descended like a plague of locusts. They hauled the fish away under the watchful gaze of Agent Carter, who today was clad in a brown jacket, her arms folded over her chest as she observed the proceedings.

Bucky grinned at the expression she was trying so carefully to hide. "You look surprised to see all the fish we caught, Agent Carter."

"Disappointed, more like," she said. "I bet Howard you'd come back empty handed. Congratulations; you've exceeded my expectations, fed the camp with something other than spam for another night, and cost me five dollars."

"Wait a minute… You weren't the one who told Hawkswell to send us on this errand-boy mission, were you?"

"Of course not." Agent Carter treated him to an overly sweet smile. "Colonel Hawkswell is a very old fashioned officer who doesn't like to hear ideas from women. I simply told him that the two of you were _far_ too busy and important to be wasted on simple supply missions." She straightened up and nodded at a couple of the kitchen staff as they passed. "Well, I suppose I should go and pay Howard before he comes looking for his money. Good evening, Sergeants."

"Y'know," Bucky mused, "I don't know whether all British people have the ability to be completely horrible whilst being unfailingly polite, or whether it's something unique to Agent Carter."

"I'm guessing the latter," Wells snorted. "I don't remember meeting any dames like her in Plymouth. I have this theory that she hates men. You're nice to her, she hates you. You're firm with her, she hates you. You try to joke with her, she hates you. Either she's gonna live bitterly alone, or she's gonna find herself some spineless mouse of a man to intimidate into marrying her."

Bucky just chuckled quietly. This was usually around the time that Wells claimed he was gonna marry Agent Carter himself, but ever since that business with the German spies, he seemed to have cooled towards her, and Bucky wasn't exactly sure why. He knew that Wells was pissed at Carter for being prepared to shoot him, and Carter was pissed at Wells for deceiving her into being tied up, but it seemed deeper than that. More personal, somehow. All he had were some very vague, hazy memories of the two of them arguing. But whatever their beef, the last thing he wanted was to get stuck in the middle.

"Y'wanna get a poker game going after dinner?" he asked instead.

"Sure. I've got time to kill."

"Will you take my rifle back to the barracks?" he asked, handing his M1 over. "I wanna make a quick visit to the chaplain's tent."

Wells rolled his eyes, but accepted the gun. "More prayers? Do they really make you feel better?"

"A little. Why don't you come?"

"Thanks, but I'd rather clean my rifle. It's of more use to me in a firefight than God."

"Suit yourself." He made his way to the chaplain's tent and tried not to dwell too much on what beef Wells had with the church. Much like whatever problem he had with Agent Carter, it was just something Bucky didn't want to end up in the middle of.


	44. A One-gal Guy

We Were Soldiers

 _44\. A One-gal Guy_

"Our intelligence indicates this bunker processes an unusually high amount of communications traffic," said Phillips as he pointed to a red pin on the map tacked to the cork board in the command tent. "We think it might be some sort of focal point, or central relay, for HYDRA's bunker network. We've suspected for a while that HYDRA has long-range communications facilities in other countries Germany has occupied or allied with, and this bunker may have a link to those networks."

"Which is why," Stark stepped neatly in, "I'll be accompanying you on this mission. The opportunity to get the jump on any additional HYDRA intel is too good to pass up."

"Have you ever seen combat before?" Bucky asked him.

"Of course. I was almost killed on three separate occasions." Howard grinned. "Four, if you count that brunette who just wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Then again, the 'no' came after a whole bunch of 'yes', so maybe I had that coming."

"So, the real answer is 'no'," said Wells

Stark gave Wells what was probably supposed to be a friendly punch on the shoulder, and ended up shaking his hand to rid it of the sting. "Come now, Sergeant Sceptical, I'm sure I'll be safe with you and Sergeant Scowlsalot to keep an eye on me. After all, you've been in France for four weeks now, and you're still alive, so you've already beaten the life expectancy for green soldiers on the front lines. As far as infantrymen go, you're not _entirely_ incompetent."

"That's probably the most back-handed compliment I've ever received," said Bucky. "Did it physically pain you to say those words?"

"They didn't come easy."

"Men," said Phillips, recalling their attention to the mission briefing, "you'll be leaving after lunch. The target is a five-klick march from our location, so I expect you there and back again before nightfall. Camp will be moving first thing in the morning."

One of Bucky's eyebrows arched upward. There and back before nightfall was a pretty tight schedule. It usually took several hours just to dig the graves. In the past, Phillips had given them a fairly loose rein, as far as timetables were concerned.

"Is there some sort of need to hurry, Colonel?" he asked.

"We've had a number of setbacks and we're behind schedule." Phillips' response was gruff. Guarded. When Bucky glanced at Wells, he saw the same question in his friend's eyes: _Whose_ schedule were they behind? "Now, Stark, I want this mission to go as smooth as the skin on a baby's behind. Let the soldiers do their jobs, and try not to get in the way. Sergeants, I would like my lead scientist back alive. Keep an eye on him."

"Does he have to come back alive and in one piece?" Wells asked. The only response was a withering stare. "Right. One piece it is."

"You're dismissed," Phillips told them all. Bucky and Wells saluted. Stark merely ambled off in the direction of his tent.

"So," said Wells, when they were clear of the command tent, "should we assemble the usual suspects?"

Bucky shook his head. "I wanna switch Carrot and Hawkins for Baker and Hall."

"Huh? Why? We've got a good team. The men know what they're doing."

"Exactly. I've been thinking about what Weiss said, about giving the men more experience. I always thought of there being two groups in the 107th—Weiss' group, and ours. But it's not like that, not really; we're all from the same regiment, and now Weiss is gone. I wanna get a measure of some of the other men."

Wells offered a non-committal shrug. "Fine by me. I'm sure Carrot won't mind sitting one out; he can use the opportunity to get some extra praying done, or whatever."

"Y'know, he spends most of his time praying for everyone else, you included."

The news was met with much eye-rolling.

"Yeah, he would. He's a patsy. Anyway, let's get breakfast."

Most of the 107th were awake and getting fed in the mess when Bucky and his fellow sergeant arrived. They collected a serving of shit-on-a-shingle and joined a group at the least crowded table. The conversation seemed to revolve around a bet, and Bucky let his mind tune in as he tucked into his less than appetising breakfast.

"I could do three, easy," said Hodge.

"Now taking bets on whether Hodge can do three at once," said Davies, reaching into his pocket for his notepad.

"Before I put down a bet that Hodge can't even do one at once," Wells said with a grin, "tell me what Hodge is actually trying to do."

"Juggling," said Gusty. "He thinks he can juggle three balls."

The comment earned a round of childish snickers.

"I said _anything_ ," Hodge scowled. "I said I could juggle three of _anything_."

"Bet you couldn't juggle three knives," said Wells.

Hodge's eyes danced uncertainly over the faces of those at the table. Bucky could tell he didn't like the idea of juggling three knives—probably because he wasn't a _complete_ idiot—but he could hardly say that aloud. Not after claiming he could juggle three of anything. In the end, he got around the subject by turning it a hundred and eighty degrees.

"Yeah, well, I bet _you_ couldn't juggle three knives."

"Five bucks says I could."

Davies began scribbling in his notebook. "Now taking bets on whether Wells can juggle three knives."

Not many people were willing to take that bet. Only Carrot put money on Wells being able to pull off the feat of bullshit, but then, Carrot really was kind of a patsy. A nice patsy, of course. Bucky abstained from voting either way; he knew he'd only feel bad profiting from his friend's eventual suffering.

"It's gotta be sharp knives," Davies said. "Not ordinary blunt butter knives."

"No problem," Wells smirked.

"Wells," Bucky said. If there was even a slim chance of talking his friend out of this nonsense, he had to try. "This is a bad idea. I can feel it in my gut."

"That's not a bad-idea-feeling; it's the shit-on-a-shingle that your stomach's protesting against." Gusty dashed off to borrow three sharp knives from the kitchen staff. "Don't worry, Barnes, I'm gonna take these guys for all the money they own. Me and Carrot are gonna split the winnings sixty-forty."

Carrot's brow lowered as he did math in his head. "Wait, why not fifty-fifty?"

"Because I'm the one doing all the hard work, of course. But if _you_ wanna juggle knives instead, I'll happily split it forty-sixty."

"I don't think I could juggle one knife, Sarge, never mind three."

"And that, Corporal, is why we're splitting the winnings sixty-forty."

"If you don't take your hands clean off," Bucky pointed out.

"I won't. When I was a kid, I had this grand plan to run away and join the circus, so I practised juggling every day. Three knives aren't much different than three apples; it's just a matter of tossing them the right way to catch them by the flat of the blades."

"Whatever happened to that plan?" Hodge asked. Smug was written all over his face; Bucky could see him mentally spending the money he hadn't yet won.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Word of the wager had spread by the time Gusty returned with three particularly sharp-looking knives. The men at the surrounding tables had abandoned their lumpy, floaty, SOS breakfasts in favour of witnessing either a miraculous act of juggling, or a horrific accident of digit-dismembering. Never one to shy from a crowd, Wells took a bow and climbed onto his chair, so those further away could see him. Bucky ushered everybody at the front a couple of paces back; no need for the audience to be harmed by Wells' idiocy, no matter how much some of them might deserve it for their wanton and frivolous gambling.

"And now, for my next trick, I'm going to juggle three knives for a minimum of thirty seconds," Wells announced to the growing crowd. There were a few cheers, but they didn't sound particularly hopeful. More like the cheers of men looking forward to entertainment. Any entertainment. "How big is the pot, Gusty?"

"Twenty-eight dollars."

"Last chance for you all to lose your money by betting against me!" The pot grew to thirty-five dollars. Bucky shook his head. Carrot and Wells were about to lose a small fortune.

"Are you actually gonna do it?" Hodge asked. "Or are you just gonna talk about doin' it until we all get bored and leave?"

"Alright, here goes," said Wells. He hefted each of the knives, felt their weight, turned them over and over in his fingers a couple of times. Then he held one in his left hand, and two between the fingers of his right hand, and threw the first knife in the air to a collective "Oooh."

Bucky wanted to close his eyes as the knives began flashing through the air like wicked metal teeth, but he forced himself to watch. He suspected this was going to be one of those stories he'd one day tell his grandkids, and those grandkids would probably appreciate a blow-by-blow account of how it had all gone sideways. Kids liked that sort of bloody, visceral detail.

Besides, somebody would need to tell the brass what had happened, too.

Bucky's face wasn't the only one to show surprise when Wells actually managed a solid ten seconds of knife-juggling without losing any fingers. But judging by the concentration on his face, it was taking every ounce of focus he possessed to keep those knives flowing freely. Soon the jeering and whistling began as men who had money riding on Wells injuring himself tried to put him off his stride. Carrot's was the only voice which didn't encourage Wells to drop a knife or slice off a part of a finger.

"ARGH!"

The jeering stopped when one of the knives came tumbling down too fast and slipped past Wells' fingers to land point-first in his right hand. Bucky was on his feet immediately, followed only a heartbeat later by Gusty and Carrot. They helped Wells down from his chair; his face had gone decidedly paler as his blue eyes stared at the blade sticking out of his palm. There was surprisingly little blood. When he moved his left hand to grab the hilt, Bucky stopped him. Emergency aid training came rushing back into his head from boot camp.

"You aren't supposed to pull out embedded objects."

"Y'want me to take him to the hospital tent, Sarge?" Gusty offered.

Wells grabbed the front of Bucky's shirt with his left hand, his eyes turning pleading. "Please don't let Gusty take me to the hospital. The sight of him and Nurse Klein making calf-eyes at each other across the tent will make me hurl, and I already feel kinda queasy."

"We don't make calf-eyes," Gusty said, a blush warring with a scowl for domination of his face.

"Alright," Bucky sighed. "It's my turn to carry _you_ to the hospital, anyway. Please tell me you can walk; I don't want to _literally_ have to carry you."

"I can walk. But could we take it slow? I don't want this thing jiggling around in my hand."

"Slow it is." He wrapped an arm around Wells' shoulders while Wells held the blade still with his free hand. It didn't seem to be buried too deeply, but Bucky suspected it would bleed like hell when it was pulled out. "Alright folks, show's over," he said, as he directed Wells out of the mess. "Go find things to do, or I might find them for you."

"Hey, Wells, don't forget about my money," Hodge gloated as they left the tent.

Luckily, the mess wasn't too far from the hospital. They wound their way around a couple of regimental tents, and drew more stares than usual. The other regiments were used to the 107th's antics by now, but they didn't usually end in injury. They strode past the 69th's tent, where a few of the men were servicing their rifles in the morning sun. Dugan's blue-eyed gaze came up, and the big man grinned.

"Hey Wells, didn't your mommy ever tell you you're supposed to hold the knife by the handle and stick the pointy end in your food?"

"You're fuckin' hilarious, Dugan," said Wells. But Bucky could tell his heart wasn't in the profanity; he seemed more concerned about keeping the knife from wiggling around and opening a wider hole in his hand.

Sympathy at the hospital tent was more forthcoming. Nurse Klein was the admitting nurse, and she leapt to her feet as soon as she saw the knife, ushering Wells towards a nearby bed and practically hauling him onto it.

"What on earth happened?"

"I had a kitchen accident," Wells lied. A little of the colour had returned to his cheeks now that he wasn't standing upright, but his blue eyes told of pain he was trying to hide. "Can we take the knife out now? It kinda smarts."

"Just wait one moment whilst I grab some gauze and fetch Doctor Peacock. He'll want to take a look while the wound's fresh."

Nurse Klein bustled to the far end of the tent, and Wells leant back on the bed, his lower lip chewed nervously between his teeth. When he realised what he was doing, he stopped and looked up. Tiny beads of sweat began to prickle his brow.

"I nearly had that money, too. You should'a bet against me. You could've won your money back with interest."

Bucky pulled up a chair to sit by the side of the bed, and offered Wells a small smile. "I'll never bet against a friend, not even if it makes me rich or gets me ahead. Not my style."

"You didn't bet _for_ me, either."

"Yeah, I'm not an idiot."

"There's the vote of confidence I've been in need of," Wells scoffed.

"You know I would'a voted for you if it was darts or poker or somethin', but juggling knives is a whole different kettle of fish." And Wells had actually compared juggling knives to juggling apples. That fact alone would've made him wary about betting.

Dr. Peacock arrived with Nurse Klein in tow. The man's assessing gaze took in the knife, and he shook his head. "Did somebody stab you, Sergeant Wells?"

"Of course not! Who would stab _me?_ "

Dr. Peacock did not answer that particular question. "Alright, let's see the damage. Nurse, I'll perform the extraction, so please be ready with those bandages."

 _Perform the extraction_ , Bucky mentally snorted. More medi-babble to make things sound better than they were. _Perform the extraction_ sounded much more technical and challenging than _pull the knife out._

Wells winced as Dr. Peacock 'performed the extraction,' and Nurse Klein immediately pounced with the gauze, shoving it into the pool of blood forming on Wells' hand and holding it there with enough pressure to start to stem the bleeding. Bucky gave his friend a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"Now, Sergeant Wells, please curl your fingers," Dr. Peacock instructed. Wells obeyed. "Very good. One at a time, now. Excellent. It doesn't appear the knife has sliced through any tendons or ligaments; it's likely just muscle damage. We'll stitch it up and apply a cold compress to bring the swelling down."

"Take good care of this guy, Doctor," Bucky told him. "I need him for a mission in about five hours."

"A mission?" Dr. Peacock removed his glasses and wiped them on his white jacket. "Oh no, no, no, no! There will be no missions for Sergeant Wells for at least a couple of days. He'll need to rest that hand, and by the time we've bandaged it up, he won't be able to hold a rifle, much less pull a trigger."

"Sorry, Barnes," Wells sighed. "I just hope it isn't too hard for you to find someone to replace my skill, and expertise, and—"

"I'm sure Carrot won't mind filling in for you," Bucky said. He pushed himself up from the chair. "I better go report your 'accident' to the brass. I'll see you when I get back… and please don't juggle any more knives whilst I'm gone, okay?"

"I promise I will never juggle knives again," said Wells, his tone solemn and pained. Bucky nodded. He suspected his friend had learnt his lesson from this, and that was about the most he could ask for.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky kept alert as he led the fifteen-plus-two man team to the location of the next bunker. Stark still didn't trust Bucky with an SSR-01, so he carried his M1 instead. At the back of the column of men, Tex was suffering one of Stark's in-depth descriptions of exactly how he'd managed to make the sniper rifles so successful… in painful detail.

A few hundred metres out, Bucky called a halt. The men gathered around, but they didn't need much in the way of instruction. Everybody except Baker and Hall had done this before, and Bucky had put Baker on Jones' team, and Hall on Gusty's team, so they each had a corporal to show them how it was done.

"Once we've got the door open, I'll lead a four-man team into the bunker," Bucky said. "Carrot, Franklin, Biggs, you're with me. The rest of you set up a defensive perimeter and start digging holes. Colonel wants this done fast, but I want it done right. Okay?"

"Yes Sarge," they all agreed.

"Good. Get into position."

"What about me?" Stark asked, as the rest of the men moved away.

Bucky gestured at the man in the Kraut uniform. "You stay back with our German friend."

"Don't I get a gun?"

"Not unless you brought one."

"But what if we're attacked?"

"Well, how'd you handle that brunette who wouldn't take 'no' for an answer?"

"I ran away and let my butler handle her."

"In that case," Bucky said, with another sweeping gesture at the stony-faced Kraut, "meet your new butler."

"Great," Stark grumbled quietly to himself. "And I thought we'd left the sarcastic one back at the camp."

Bucky put Stark out of mind as he followed the rest of the team. Jones and his small group were already peeling off to the east to take a different approach, whilst Gusty took the west approach, leaving Bucky and his team to approach head-on. The forest here was thicker than he was used to seeing so far; the small olive and cypress trees were interspersed with larger pine, and more familiar deciduous trees. The ground was a carpet of pine needles, herbaceous shrubs and bushy ferns, some of which came over knee-height.

"Enemy soldiers!" someone yelled, just as a spray of bullets tore through the trees. Reflexes, made sharper through nervous tension, kicked in immediately, and Bucky dropped to the ground, lowering his profile as German machine guns screamed death wails into the air. Where bullets hit ground, they sent up a violent spray of dry, dusty soil and sharp brown pine needles, and Bucky had to briefly close his eyes to stop himself being blinded by the dust.

 _Shit._

The thought ricocheted around his head as the earth in front of him was torn and shredded by the metal spray. All around he heard the other men in the small company from the 107th drop and return fire. Bucky lifted his own weapon and fired at at spot he thought he saw gunfire flash from, but the summer foliage was so dense, the air so choked with dust, that he couldn't tell whether he was actually hitting anything.

Where the hell had these machine guns come from? This bunker wasn't supposed to be so heavily fortified. Phillips would have said something. Would have sent the team in better prepared. Would have sent the heavy artillery to back them up. Unless… had HYDRA known they were coming? Was there another spy in their midst? One who had communicated the impending attack? The thought was enough to send a cold sweat along Bucky's back.

He emptied his clip and kept his head down while he reloaded. Kept his breathing shallow to prevent inhaling too much flying dust. On the verge of opening fire again, he stopped, listening to something on the edge of his hearing. It sounded like a moan. Like somebody in pain. Carefully, he lifted his head and scanned the ground.

There was a body not far to Bucky's right, lying supine. The groan came again, more quietly this time.

 _Shit._

He crawled towards the sound of pain, dragging himself with his elbows, pushing forward with his knees. As he reached the body, he saw a bright shock of auburn hair beneath a helmet that had fallen askew. A lightning bolt of fear tore through him from head to toe.

"Carrot!" he hissed, reaching out and shaking the man's shoulder.

A pair light of blue eyes opened, full of pain and fear. "Barnes?" His name came out in a quiet, pained gasp that made Bucky's stomach turn. When Carrot coughed up a spray of foamy blood, it turned again.

"Yeah, it's me."

"I been hit, Sarge."

Bucky didn't need telling. A crimson patch had blossomed on Carrot's stomach, and it was spreading across his uniform. With a trembling hand, Bucky reached out and tried to put pressure on the wound, but it was like trying to stem the flow of a dam with a wine cork. The only way he could generate enough pressure would be to press from above, with his weight behind him. If he did that, he'd make himself a magnet for the bullets still flying.

"How bad is it?" asked Carrot.

"A flesh wound. You'll walk it off." The lie fell easily from his lips. There was too much blood. And worse, Carrot was coughing it up. Bucky was no medic, but he knew that could only mean one thing. Something was wrong, inside. Something no amount of pressure could fix.

Carrot coughed again, struggling for words. "You… you're so full of shit, Barnes."

"Don't talk. Save your strength."

The corporal ignored him. "Should'a been… faster."

"You will be. Next time. Now shut up and save your strength like I said. That's an order, Corporal."

A bubble of bitter laughter escaped Carrot's lips. "You're pulling rank, Sarge?"

"That's right. And I'm gonna bust you back to Private when we get back to camp if you don't start following orders."

"Sorry, Sarge. Don't think…" he coughed mid-sentence, bringing up more blood, "…you'll get chance to carry on your power trip. Will you… will you do something for me?"

Bucky felt his chest tighten, like someone had just come along with a vice and they were squeezing, and squeezing, and any minute something was gonna give.

He wanted to say 'no.' He wanted to say 'do it yourself.' Those were the proper things to say. The tough, soldier things to say. If he refused, Carrot would have no choice but to hang in there and see to his own final requests when he recovered. Years from now, after they'd kicked the Nazis blubbing all the way back to Berlin, he and Carrot would meet up in some bar to reminisce about the time Carrot got hit and asked Bucky to do something for him, and how Bucky saved his life by not giving his friend permission to die. And Carrot would thank him for not giving in, for giving him a reason to cling on to the dim spark of life, and he'd show him pictures of his first kid, which would undoubtedly be named after Bucky.

"Anything," he replied.

"There's… a letter to Samantha, in my footlocker… back at base camp." Carrot coughed again, and it was the only sound Bucky heard. The noise of gunfire, of men shouting, of orders yelled above the hubbub, fell away. The forest fell away. The entire world fell away. "Make sure she gets it?"

"I'll post it myself as soon as I get back. I promise she'll get it."

Carrot nodded, his eyes roving the treetops as if searching for something. "Gettin' kinda dark out here."

It was a beautiful summer day. "Sun's going down," Bucky lied again.

"Barnes?"

"Yeah?"

Carrot took a deep breath, or tried to. It ended in another coughing fit. When Carrot's eyes found Bucky's face, he tried to make it neutral, to wipe away whatever feelings it was betraying.

"Don't want… your ugly mug… to be the last thing I see. Want… to see Samantha again. She's… she's in my breast pocket. Closest… I could get… to my heart."

Bucky reached for the man's pocket. Every night since arriving at Last Stop, USA, Carrot had brought out the picture and just looked at it, as if afraid he might forget what she looked like if he went a day without seeing her. Samantha was a beautiful girl, her blonde hair styled into loose curls, her eyes sparkling with so much life that it seemed to flow out from the photograph. The other men had joked that she must be blind, to be engaged to Carrot, but he took the teasing in good stride, knowing what everyone who'd ever been in love knew: that he was the luckiest man in the world.

Carrot didn't have the strength to lift an arm and hold the picture, so Bucky held it for him. He did his best to hold it still, to make his hand stop shaking, to keep the picture high enough for Carrot to see, high enough to keep it away from the blood.

A smile appeared on Carrot's face, the pain disappearing from his eyes as they fell on the girl he'd made a promise to marry. For the first time since arriving at the front, Bucky was glad that he hadn't found 'the one' yet; that none of the girls he'd danced with and kissed had ever had that special something that made him want to stop chasing. That when some of the other guys in the company talked about their loves waiting back home, he could only listen with a little envy. At least if he didn't make it back home, he wouldn't be breaking a heart.

"My angel," Carrot whispered. "Tell her…"

The words died with him. The person he had been faded away, leaving behind an empty shell.


	45. Give 'em Hell

We Were Soldiers

 _45\. Give_ _'em Hell_

Bucky lay staring at the lifeless body of Carrot until the _BOOM!_ of a grenade recalled his wits back to him. His men were fighting back, and he was falling to pieces. Sergeant Weiss' words came trickling back into his mind, punctuated by each returning shot his men fired. _"If you can't be a good man and a good sergeant at the same time, if you can't reconcile that, then choose to be a good sergeant, because that's what the men need most of all."_

Right now, lying in the dirt, holding a picture of a woman for a dead man's eyes to unsee, he wasn't being either.

He tucked the picture of Samantha back into Carrot's shirt. After this was over, they'd take his body back to camp and bury them together. It seemed right. A man didn't deserve to be parted from his love, not even in death.

" _Hall, circle around that gunner!"_ he heard Gusty call. _"Franklin, let's draw their fire!"_

And, off to the left, Jones yelled out his own instructions. _"Another round of grenades! Let's show them what we think of machine guns!"_

Good. That was good. They were working together. One team throwing ordnance, another making surgical strikes. And he was willing to bet Tex was somewhere under cover, taking what shots he could. Bucky pushed himself to his feet and made a dash for Gusty's last known position. It was time to fight back. HYDRA had taken enough good men; he'd be damned if he was going to let them take any more.

"Gusty, I'm coming up on your six!" he yelled so that his friends didn't accidentally shoot him, all the while expecting to be shot down by German machine guns. But the grenade diversion worked in his favour; the Krauts were too busy trying to target Jones' position to notice a lone man running.

He slid to a halt behind the cover of several small bushes, where Gusty, Hall and Franklin were crouching in wait. Some thirty metres from their position, a German machine gunner was firing at something off in the distance.

"Where's Carrot?" Gusty whispered.

Bucky shook his head as his stomach twinged unpleasantly. He'd seen dead men before, but this was the first time he'd seen a man die. The first time he'd sat with someone whose life had drained away, and he'd been utterly helpless, unable to anything but offer the final comfort of his presence. All he'd been able to manage was make sure his friend didn't die alone. Quickly, he blinked the unshed tears from his eyes before they could burn his vision.

"Shit." Gusty slammed a new clip of ammo into the chamber of his M1, and the bolt slid swiftly back into place. That familiar cold gleam was back in his eyes. "Guess it's one more death to make the sons of bitches pay for. Like we didn't have enough already."

"Looks like our guy's attention's fully on Jones," said Hall. He was at the edge of the cover, peeping out at the HYDRA machine gunner.

"Y'wanna give us a count-down, Sarge?" Gusty asked Bucky.

He nodded. Already had a full clip in his own rifle. "We'll give him a round, then Franklin and I will head directly over to that bluff and take cover behind it. Gusty, Hall, stay here and lay suppressing fire in case there are any more Krauts out there. One, two, three, go."

Gripping his rifle, he pushed himself up from the ground, peered down the narrow sight, and pulled the trigger as soon as the prone machine gunner was within it. Three other shots echoed his own, and the Kraut's body jerked and spasmed as a spray of bullets hit it. Bucky didn't wait to see whether the man died instantly from his injuries, or whether he bled out slowly, as Carrot had. He was already moving, hot on Franklin's heels as they made for the bluff. Bucky reached it and slid behind it like he'd slid into home base as a kid, just as the ground beside his head was chewed up by rifle fire. A quiet _crack_ and a cessation of fire told him that particular move had drawn Tex's keen eye to the shooter's position.

 _This isn_ _'t supposed to happen._

It was a stupid, childish thought to have in the middle of a firefight, but he couldn't help it. This wasn't supposed to be the way these missions went. They were supposed to be… not easy, but routine. Bucky and his team were supposed to sneak in and catch the Krauts with their pants down, and make witty quips as they took out the enemy. They weren't supposed to be surprised. They weren't supposed to need a counter-offensive. They weren't supposed to lose men.

Belatedly, he remembered about the radio in his backpack. He pulled it out and decided the need for intel was greater than the distraction the radios might bring. He pressed the transmit button.

"This is Barnes. I don't know about the rest of you, but I've just about had enough of these damn Nazis. We've already lost the element of surprise, which means the men in that bunker have probably given away our presence by now. We need to deal with these guys and then get the jammers set up ASAP. Hope Stark and our German friend can perform damage control later. I can hear one machine gun still active out there, but I can't see it. I can hear rifles, too. Anyone got a head count on the targets?"

" _This is Jones. We've got the attention of the machine gun, but we're pinned down. I think the rifles are trying to sneak around behind us."_

 _Crack._

" _One less rifle for you to worry about,"_ said Tex. _"Ah can see two more riflemen, but ah can't find the machine gun. Must be out of mah line of sight."_

" _Sarge, Hall and I can circle back around to Jones' position, catch the Krauts trying to circle around them,"_ said Gusty. _"That should free up you and Franklin for dealing with that machine gun."_

"Alright. We'll rendezvous at the bunker, but don't forget about the machine gun position there too. Tex, if you can get ahead and take out that gun, that'd be a real help for when we get there."

" _Mah pleasure."_

Bucky gestured for Franklin to follow him, and they pressed cautiously on. Over the steady _ratta-tatta-tat_ of a machine gun, and the regular _blam! blam! blam!_ of rifle fire, he could just about hear his own heavy breathing and the blood rushing through his ears as his heart ran a mad race. The _ratta-tatta-tat_ grew louder, and some fifty metres away they finally lay eyes on the second machine gunner. He had an elevated position, partially screened by low scrub, and his back was to the advancing pair. Bucky nodded at Franklin, and they raised their rifles.

Only a month ago, the thought of killing a man while his back was turned would have sat uneasy in his head and his stomach. Would've made the bile rise in his throat no matter how necessary the action. Now, it was easier. Now, he didn't see the life he was about to take; he saw the lives that would never be. Carrot, lying cold on the ground. Samantha, whose fiancé would never come home from the war to await her at the end of the aisle. The children they would never go on to have; two boys and two girls, carrot-topped like their papa, but with Samantha's beautiful smile. The lives stolen because Carrot had died at the hands of these murderers.

 _No more,_ Bucky promised as he pulled the trigger. _I don_ _'t want to lose any more friends. I'll do whatever it takes to keep them alive, and I'll live with the consequences._

The gunner's body twitched in its death throes. Bucky put another bullet in him just to be on the safe side. He'd seen first hand the sort of sneaky, back-stabbing things Nazis were capable of, and by all accounts, this HYDRA lot were even worse than the regular ones.

"Franklin, disable that MG," Bucky told him. Then he picked up his short-range radio. "Tex, I'm about to head up to the bunker. How's it coming?"

" _Ah got the detector in my sights, Sarge, but the place is crawling with Nazis. Ah count five, and there's some sort of truck up here, too. Ah think it's a resupply wagon. If ah take out that detector, they're gonna know ah'm here. Not that it'll do much good; their machine gun is manned, and they've set up a defensive perimeter. Ah can take out their gunner, but ah'll need you to signal me right before you attack."_

"Alright. Hold for now. Gusty, Jones, how are you looking?"

" _We're fine, Sarge,"_ said Gusty. _"Just dealt with those rifles, no injuries. Full team's ready to go."_

"Good to hear. In that case, split up into two-man teams and advance."

" _Err, what's the plan, Sarge?"_ Jones asked.

A grim smile tugged at Bucky's lips. "The plan is: give 'em hell."

And give 'em hell they did. Just as they reached the bunker, Bucky gave Tex the signal, and he took out the machine gunner before he could get off a single shot, followed quickly by the detector that Bucky feared would take over if the gunner died. The HYDRA troops fought as ferociously as ever, but, just like Bucky's dad had told him before he'd shipped out, it came down to a matter of numbers. The HYDRA soldiers were out-manned; one by one, they fell, covering their own retreat, until the last two backed into the bunker and slammed the door closed behind them.

"Gonna need the Universal Key," Bucky called, as he entered the clearing. He eyed up the gun turret as Gusty brought the key from his backpack. There was a hatch up there, one that led right to the HYDRA control room. Might be worth sending a few men through the front door, and one down the back door. Cover all bases. It was a crazy plan—he felt immediately that Wells would approve. "Someone run and fetch Stark up here. As soon as we've cleared out that bunker, I want him to do whatever he does in these places. We've got a hell of a lot of graves to dig today."

"Umm, yeah, about that," said Gusty, as he handed the key to Davies and stood back to let the Pfc. attach the key to the door. "Look, Sarge, I know you're all for respecting the murderous dead or whatever, but there's three guys out here, two or three in there, and a half dozen we left littering the forest floor. Why don't we just dig one grave? It'd save a bit of time."

"You wanna stick 'em in a mass grave?"

"Well, no. I wanna leave 'em out for the crows. But that's me. You're the one who wants to bury 'em, and they were happy to share a bunker in life, so why not a grave in death?"

"Individual graves," Bucky scowled. "Jones, you'll oversee it."

Jones licked his lips and fidgeted on the spot. "Yes, Sarge."

Bucky shouldered his rifle and slid the safety off his pistol. "Gusty, you'll take Hall and Biggs into the bunker once Davies has the door open. I'm gonna climb up to that hatch, up in the gunner's position, and sneak in to their control room. Jones, get those jammers deployed. It's probably much too late to stop them sending out an SOS, but at least we can stop them saying anything else."

Everyone knew what they were doing. Things had gone sideways, and they'd lost a man, but the team was holding together, mostly without any grumbles. Bucky left the two remaining corporals to their tasks, and climbed up to the gunner's position atop the bunker. _For the love of God, Tex, don_ _'t shoot me,_ he mentally prayed.

He didn't wait for Davies' signal. He had to be in place before the bunker was stormed, so he reached for the hatch handle as soon as he got to the top of the bunker. He was lucky; the gunner hadn't had chance to lock the door behind himself before dying. The short, vertical tunnel was unlocked and unguarded. He climbed down the cold metal ladder and felt his eyes try to open wider as the light faded. Too bad those night-vision scopes on the SSRs couldn't be used down here; night-vision would'a come in mighty handy right about now.

When he reached the small door which opened out into the control room, he stopped and pressed his ear against it. A voice came from within, speaking German but tinged with panic that Bucky could hear despite not having a damn clue what the guy was saying. He guessed the jammers were in place. That the bunker's comms had just gone dark. For a very, very brief moment, Bucky pitied the guy. There he was, sat in a dingy little room, probably barricaded in by the guards, with no clue about what was happening outside and nothing to do but wait for certain doom and consider that little cyanide implant in his tooth.

The memory of Carrot's lifeless eyes chased all pity away. Pity was something he would reserve for the innocent. For the victims of murderers like these, not for the murderers themselves.

The signal to advance came in the form of a volley of gunfire. Gusty and his team had just gotten into the bunker. It would only be a matter of time before they reached the comms room. Bucky closed his eyes and prayed silently for a minute that they could end this without any further deaths. Then, he took a deep breath, gave himself a three-count, lowered the door handle, and kicked it open with a _bang!_

The man in the comms room reached for his pistol even before Bucky had fully stepped into the room, but, taken by surprise, he didn't stand a chance. Bucky fired three rounds into his chest. The first two shots elicited pained cries; the third was just a formality. The body stopped twitching, eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling as there came a pounding on the comms room door. Through the metal, Bucky heard Gusty's voice call out, _"We're gonna need the key again!"_

"Allow me, Corporal," Bucky said, as he opened the door from the inside. To his relief, he found Hall and Gusty standing in front of the mountainous Biggs, all three of them unharmed as they looked to the dead body on the floor.

"Thanks," said Gusty. "You're such a gentleman."

"Err, Sarge…" Biggs began.

"What information do you suppose they're sending?" Gusty asked, as he stepped into the room and kicked the dead Kraut's leg. It wobbled limply from side to side before falling still.

"Dunno," Bucky shrugged. He holstered his pistol glanced over the myriad flashing lights on the communications panel.

"Sarge…"

"I reckon it's intel about Allied locations and plans," said Hall. "Just like those Nazis, to go spying on people all the time."

"It's not like we don't have spies of our own, Hall," Bucky pointed out.

"SARGE!" Biggs exploded.

"What is it, Biggs?"

"What do you suppose this box thing is for, with the flashing red light, and all these wires coming out of it, and a timer that's counting down?"

Bucky crouched down in front of the box Biggs was pointing at with a trembling finger, and saw how long was left on the clock. He felt the blood drain from his face. "Gusty, go and fetch Stark."

"Why, Sarge? What is it?"

"Just go. And hurry."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Fifteen minutes later, Bucky peered out from behind the resupply wagon—which Davies had driven further away from the bunker at Bucky's urgent request—and heaved the deepest sigh of relief he'd ever sighed as he saw Stark step out from the bunker. Capturing one of these things usually made the guy giddy as a kid who'd been given a bag of candy; now, his face was etched deeply with concern.

"Stay here," he told the men. He left his place of safety and jogged out to meet Stark. He hadn't even let them start digging graves yet; there was no point, if the bunker was going to explode.

The first words out of Stark's mouth were not the ones Bucky was expecting.

"I'm very sorry about Corporal Robbins. He seemed a good man."

"He wa—wait, you know his name?"

Stark looked affronted by the question. "Of course I know his name. We're talking about the man who drank my two-hundred dollar bottle of Balvenie."

"I… what?" Slivers of alarm threaded their way through Bucky's head, reaching down into his stomach to make it churn with guilt and a niggle of fear.

"Oh yes. I know all about that. Corporal Robbins came to me after your mission to reclaim our lost supplies, and told me he'd felt so shaken by his near-death experience that he'd drunk my entire bottle of Scotch to try and calm his nerves. Apparently, his theft had been sitting like a monkey on his shoulders, so after a little encouragement and divine forgiveness from the chaplain, he confessed everything to me."

"Oh." Carrot had done that? Bucky knew the guy had felt bad about the Scotch, but he didn't think Carrot would do anything so foolishly selfless. And now, Carrot was gone, and Stark would forever remember him as the guy who'd drunk his Scotch. It would be a stain on his otherwise wholesome, upstanding reputation. Bucky couldn't live with such cowardice. He looked Stark straight in the eye, and told him the truth. "Actually, he didn't drink it alone. In fact, he barely had more than a couple of swigs. I found the Scotch—thought it belonged to the brass, not that that's any sort of excuse—and the men had just lost another officer. I kept the bottle, and encouraged the men to drink it. That bottle of Scotch is on me. And also maybe Wells, just a little."

Stark merely rolled his eyes. "Well, of course you all drank it. Corporal Robbins was a good man, but he was a terrible liar; nowhere near as good as Sergeant Sarcasm, anyway. It was immediately obvious to me that he was covering for the rest of you, especially since his lie didn't tally up with yours. There's also the fact that drinking a whole bottle of Scotch would've left him violently ill, and he was clearly nothing of the sort."

"If you knew all along, why didn't you say anything?!"

"Because Corporal Robbins begged me not to tell his sergeants. Damn near ended up in a flood of tears about it. So, we made a deal. I wouldn't tell, and he'd put in a good word for me with the big man."

Big man? "You… needed Carrot to put in a good word for you with Colonel Phillips?"

"No, the _other_ big man. I know Corporal Robbins was a keen sheep in the holy flock. I'm not much of a believer myself, but Robbins promised he'd put some extra prayer time in for me." He turned his dark eyes skyward. "Hope you're remembering your promise, Corporal. At least now you can do it in person."

"Right." He should'a known he wouldn't get anything resembling genuine sorrow outta Stark. There would be time for Carrot later. "Anyway, I take it from the fact we're still here that you managed to disable the bomb? Presuming that's what it even was."

Stark pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "Yes, Sergeant, the device with a countdown timer and flashing red light and wires poking out of it _was_ a bomb, and of course I diffused it, or we wouldn't be stood here now, would we? And by the way, the next time you find a bomb, you might want to order your men to withdraw by more than fifty metres. There was enough TNT in that thing to wipe out an office block; even cowering behind that truck, they wouldn't have survived."

"So, why the long face?"

"Well, it seems those additional troops here weren't just delivering supplies, but also upgrading the bunker's defensive perimeter, and also adding some extra safety features. Rather nasty safety features, actually."

Bucky felt his heart sink. "Let me guess; they have some sort of emergency mustard gas release button, in case their bunker is compromised? That's fine; we can use gas masks."

"Nothing so primitive," Stark said. "Remember, this is HYDRA we're talking about, not your regular run-of-the-mill Nazis; their scientists are pretty sharp. They tried to recruit me. Forced Doctor Erskine to work for them for years. Oh right, you didn't know him. Never mind. Anyway, the unpleasantness I'm talking about is a dead man's switch in the form of a code that has to be entered into the communications console once every three hours. If the code isn't entered, it transmits a signal probably right to Schmidt's secret headquarters, and that signal… well, I don't know what the consequences are. Maybe the bunker gets bombed, maybe it's rigged with more explosives, or hell, maybe it really is mustard gas after all. But I expect the result would be wholesale destruction of the facility, to stop it falling into enemy hands."

"And you don't know the code."

"What? Of course I know the code! That was the first thing I pulled out of the system." He pointed to his head. "Genius, remember?"

"Oh yeah," Bucky said drily. "How could I forget? But if you have the code, what's the problem?"

"The problem is, it needs to be entered every three hours, and this bunker was supposed to be manned by a five-man team. Have you ever witnessed or participated in experiments related to sleep deprivation, Sergeant?"

"No," he said with a sigh. Why couldn't Stark just get to the damn point, instead of lording his intelligence over everybody at every available opportunity?

"Well, if you want to try being woken every two hours and fifty-nine minutes to enter a twelve-digit alpha-numeric code into a console, be my guest, and lemme know how you feel after a few days of that. Simply put, one man isn't going to be enough to keep this place running for more than a couple of days. We'll need to leave additional men here."

"That's one for the colonel to decide." He sure as hell wasn't leaving any of his own men behind. "But how do we know our presence here hasn't already been compromised? We didn't have the element of surprise, and I'm pretty sure they radioed that they were being attacked."

"Our Teutonic friend has that in hand," Stark replied. "He assures me he's managed to pass himself off as one of the HYDRA guards here. He's told them the comms officer was killed, but that they managed to pacify the attackers. Reported it was French Resistance dressed up as American soldiers, to try and throw them off guard."

"And you trust him?"

"As much as I trust anyone who isn't me. And a hell of a lot more than I trust you and your rifle-bending, Scotch-drinking buddies."

"Right." Stark was gonna hold that against him forever. One more bullet for his arsenal. "So, the bunker is secure for now, and we'll need to report back to Colonel Phillips, have him assign some extra men to stay behind and keep their finger on that dead man's switch." Stark nodded at his assessment. "What about the supplies in this wagon? We've checked it out; food rations and weapons. I guess they were destined for the other bunkers. Do you think Phillips will want the deliveries sent on?"

"Probably not. Each bunker was supplied to feed five guys for three months. We have one guy in each facility, so their supplies should last a lot longer than that. Take the wagon back to camp; I'm sure Phillips will want to keep the supplies, and Hawkswell might finally stop complaining that we're all gonna starve before this mission is over."

Bucky nodded. He'd been hoping Stark would say that; they could use the wagon to take Carrot's body back to camp. It was more dignified than carrying him back. "What about you? Do you wanna come back with the first group and report to the colonel?"

"No, I've got more to do here. I'll leave that in your marginally capable hands. Did you get everything I told you? Do you need me to write anything down? I know there's a lot to remember, and a few big words in there."

Bucky stared blankly at Stark until he left, and then turned to the rest of the team, who were watching from behind the wagon, reading to duck in case the bunker—or their sergeant—exploded violently. "Jones, get the team digging graves. Gusty, prep that truck; we're taking it back to camp. I need to give the colonel a sitrep. By the time we're back, I want those Krauts buried. Now, hop to it."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky stepped outside the command tent and took a moment to order his thoughts. Phillips had been pleased about the supplies recovered, but less so about the loss of Carrot. The knowledge that the next and final bunker in the chain had probably already been upgraded with advanced defences had him positively glowering. But he'd took it all in, listened to Bucky's recounting of Stark's assessment, then assigned one of the 9th Infantry and one of the Engineers to return to the bunker and assist the German with the running of the facility. Bucky was just glad it wasn't his own men being ordered to stay behind.

Now, he had a harder report to make, one he was looking forward to even less than his official report.

He found Wells in the regiment's tent, attempting to prop open his usual book with his heavily bandaged hand. A few guys were stretched out on their beds, writing letters home, and they were so focused on their letters that they barely even glanced up when Bucky entered the tent. Wells smoothed the irritated scowl from his face as Bucky sat himself down on the edge of his own bed; he didn't seem to be having much luck reading.

"How's your hand?" Bucky asked him.

"Hurts. Those fiends won't even give me morphine. Said I'm not hurt bad enough. How'd the mission go?"

"There were hiccups, but we took the bunker intact."

"Then why does the look on your face say you just lost your childhood puppy?" Wells tossed his book aside and sat up on his bed, his eyes suddenly full of concern. "We lost someone, didn't we? Who was it?"

"Carrot. We were ambushed by HYDRA. He was shot."

Wells flinched as he was hit with the news. His face went as pale as Bucky's had when he'd first laid eyes on that bomb.

"But… it wasn't Carrot's mission. He wasn't supposed to be there. It was supposed to be me. I should'a been the one to get shot."

"Don't say that!"

"Why not? It's true, isn't it?" Wells scowled back at him. "If I hadn't been acting like an idiot, juggling knives, I wouldn't have stabbed myself, and Carrot wouldn't have gone in my place. It's because of me he's dead."

A small, angry fire flared within Bucky's chest. "What happened to not thinking about the men who die? What happened to putting them aside and dealing with them after the war? That's what you told me, after Tipper died. Guess it's easier to give advice when you're not the one feeling responsible for losing someone, huh?"

Wells pushed himself to his feet. "I'm going for a walk."

When Wells left, the angry fire went out. He shouldn't have said that. Already regretted it. Wells finally understood how Bucky had felt after Tipper died, and instead of being sympathetic and trying to allay his guilt, Bucky had snapped at him.

Mending that bridge—again—would have to wait. Bucky had to drive the two guys selected to stay at the bunker back to the facility, and oversee whatever digging and cleanup was left to do. For now, he had to put his own feelings of regret and guilt aside, and concentrate on finishing the mission. But it wasn't easy. Today he'd been a good sergeant, but for the first time since joining this war, he didn't feel like a good man.


	46. Final Days

We Were Soldiers

 _46\. Final Days_

Bucky stood in the front row as they put Carrot in the ground. The faces around him were somber, painted red by the light of the sinking sun. Further back, a couple of the nurses were crying. Even Stark managed to look convincingly sad. Everybody had liked Carrot. He'd been an island of warmth and optimism in a sea of cynicism and bullshit. Where other men had bartered, Carrot had given freely. And now, that warmth and optimism and kindness were gone, and Bucky knew it was a loss they would all feel keenly.

The chaplain said many nice, comforting things. He seemed even more upset than the rest of the company. But then, Carrot had never missed a sermon, unless he was on a mission or sentry duty. He was probably the closest thing the chaplain had to a friend. Looking out over the flock wouldn't be the same, knowing Carrot would never be there again. Just as it wouldn't be the same for Bucky, waking every morning in the regiment's tent to an absent push-up count. The thought of the silence filled his eyes with tears, and he quickly squeezed them shut.

To close the service, a bugler from the 107th played out Taps, and then people began to drift away. Eventually, only the 107th were left to stand beside the grave, and they waited until the sun had fully set before slowly moving off. Nobody seemed to want to leave, and yet they knew they had to. There was still a war to be fought, and Phillips wanted the camp moved at first light.

He caught up to Wells a short distance from the regiment's tent, and pulled his friend aside as the rest of the men filed past into the dim interior.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier," he said. "I was a jerk, and I was out of line."

Wells shrugged. "No you weren't. You were just reminding me of my own advice. Nuthin' wrong with that. It was good advice. I'm gonna follow it."

"Alright. But if you wanna talk, just let me know."

"There's nothing to talk about."

Bucky wasn't so sure. Wells' eyes seemed unusually empty, devoid of their usual cheerful, mischievous sparkle. He reminded Bucky of how Gusty had looked, after he'd got back from the recon mission on which Tipper had died, and the thought of Wells growing more like Gusty made Bucky's gut churn badly. Despite his propensity for bullshit and gettin' Bucky in trouble, he liked Wells just the way he was. He didn't wanna see that cold, uncaring gleam in his eyes whenever he picked up a rifle. And he _certainly_ didn't wanna see it out of combat, either.

But… he couldn't force Wells to talk. It was one of the unwritten rules, like naming conventions, or the Rule of Karma. The rule said you didn't talk about the bad stuff. You sat on it until it went away, or you used it to fuel your anger in combat. And if you had to talk about a guy who'd died, you didn't talk about how his death made you feel. How guilty and helpless and empty it left you inside. How many nights you lay awake in bed replaying the event in your mind, trying to find a way of saving a friend who was already gone. You only talked about the guy as he had been when he was alive. You remembered the good times. The adventures. The bullshit. When you could talk about those things without feeling weak, you shared them. And right now, it was too soon to share about Carrot. Hell, it'd taken a week before anyone had even been able to mention Tipper's name, after he'd been killed.

"Okay," he said at last, and decided to offer an olive branch. "Colonel Hawkswell said I can write something to go with the official letter to Carrot's family. I wanna write a letter to Samantha. Tell her all about the things Carrot got up to during his time with the 107th. Do you wanna help?"

Wells shook his head. "You're better at that sorta stuff than me."

"Right. Well, let me know if you think of anything I should include."

"I'm sure you'll manage. You're a very thoughtful guy."

Wells turned and disappeared into the tent, leaving Bucky as confused as ever. He couldn't figure out whether Wells was being aloof, sad, passive aggressive, or a combination of everything. Maybe he just needed time. Maybe, like Bucky after Tipper, he just needed some space for himself, to mull things over and come to terms with what had happened. And if space was what he needed, Bucky would give it to him.

The next day, after they'd packed up camp, then marched for miles, and set up camp again, and fetched water for the drinking supply, and dug foxholes for sentry duty, and eaten their second large yet strangely unfulfilling meal of the day, Bucky settled down on his bed with a pen and a piece of writing paper. One thing he'd noticed was that ever since soldiers had starting dying more frequently, everyone had been writing home a lot more. Danzig, Tipper, Nestor, Weiss, Carrot, those guys from the 9th… it seemed death cared nothing for rank nor experience. Sometimes it seemed death was dealt purely by the luck of the draw. Tipper had stepped on a mine, and that could've been anybody's fate. Maybe Nestor had driven too close to the edge and paid for his mistake with his life, but Weiss had been the toughest, most experienced guy in the whole company, and not even his previous experience of war had been able to save him from a Nazi ambush. Maybe they were all, each and every one of them, playing Russian Roulette every time they stepped out of camp on a mission. Which of them would be next?

He turned his mind from macabre thoughts of death, and fixed his gaze on the empty page. There was so much he could say about Carrot, and yet no words he could write would ever provide true comfort for the girl waiting back at home for the man who would never return. What could he possibly say?

He decided to start from the beginning. Told Samantha of the day he'd met Carrot in the barracks of Camp Shanks, and how he'd done up the beds real nice. Then he moved on to the time the 107th had banded together to help get her the rose Carrot desperately wanted to send, and how happy the guy had been to receive her note back. He smiled as he wrote about it, recalling all the crazy exchanges he and his friends had made for the sake of love, and how it had been worth it to see Carrot happy.

After that, he wrote about their time on the _Monty_ , how Carrot had tried to learn to play poker, how he'd selflessly given up his cup of watery beer to cheer Wells up, how every night he'd brought out the picture of her, to look at her face before he closed his eyes for sleep. Left out the bit about Wells tormenting him over it, because he didn't think Samantha needed to hear about _that_.

He told more tales—about the cake for Gusty, and the play-fight in the river—and then went on to say how proud he had been of everything Carrot had done during his time with the regiment. Well onto the second page, he told her how Carrot would go out of his way to help a guy and ask for nothing in return. How every morning and night he'd gone to the chaplain's tent and prayed for the people back home and the men he served with. How he'd given his all, and never uttered a word of complaint.

And then he signed it off with his deepest condolences, and his wish that she find a way to find happiness despite her terrible loss. And maybe, just maybe, she might find some comfort in reading about the part of his life she had never known. It was all Bucky could really hope for. And maybe when the war was over, he'd find Samantha and check up on her. Make sure she was doing okay. He was sure Carrot would want that.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The soft patter of rain had a steadying effect on Bucky's nerves as he thumbed off the safety catch of his rifle and waited for the rest of the men to report back. Knowing the final communications bunker would be heavily fortified by now, he'd done it right this time. Brought twice as many men. Requisitioned the use of every functional SSR-01 rifle in the camp. Tex still had his, and the four functional ones were in the hands of Hodge, Mex, Baker and Hall. They weren't as good a shot as Tex, but they were good enough for this.

They'd done recon. Jones had scouted out the bunker, and Gusty the new defences HYDRA had installed. Then Bucky and Wells had spent an hour coming up with a plan, drilling it into every man on the team. Bucky had hand-picked them all; he knew what they were capable of, how quickly they'd jump to obey his orders, and this time he was more confident that they'd come prepared.

" _We're in position,"_ said Wells, over the radio. He'd taken Jones, Tex, half a dozen men, the signal jammers and the Universal Key, and was as close to the communications bunker as he could get.

" _We're ready too,"_ Gusty reported. He had half the remaining men, along with Hall and Mex, ready to take out one of the machine gun emplacements. The other fell to Bucky. He had Hodge and Baker with him, and they'd already targeted more of those remote detectors which had caused them so much trouble on their first mission. Something must'a spooked HYDRA; not only were the guns hooked up to detectors, they were also manned. Why had they suddenly decided to ramp up their defences?

He shook his head. It didn't matter. This was the final communications bunker in the chain that spanned southern France. Once they'd taken it, the mission would be over. Doubtless there would be more missions, but at least he wouldn't have to go through all of this again.

Lifting the radio to his mouth, he gave the command that would both start and end it. "Go."

He and his team advanced on the machine gun. He heard _crack! crack!_ as Hodge and Baker took shots at the detector, and heard the metal and plastic spray patter on the ground, louder than the raindrops. He didn't feel the dampness of his uniform as he lifted his rifle and fired; didn't feel his boots chafing his heels, or the rain trickling down the back of his neck. It was just pain. Just discomfort. He just wanted to put his last HYDRA soldier in the ground, get back to camp, and sleep for a week.

Sleep had not come so easy, since Carrot died. Every time Bucky closed his eyes, he saw Carrot's eyes, cold and unseeing. He heard the pained gasps of the young man's last breath, and felt again his own helpless despair. Sometimes he woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, gasping for air that felt heavy as lead. Sometimes when he woke, he heard Wells snoring from the bed next to his, and he knew he was faking it, because Wells never snored when he was asleep.

He welcomed the rain. Its cool patter was refreshing against his skin. His damp, chilly clothes were uncomfortable, and he welcomed that, too. Discomfort was how he knew he was still alive. Still a human being. If he was breathing, and uncomfortable, then he was doin' okay, in the most twisted sense of the word.

The machine gunner died fast, his body riddled with bullets. Franklin stepped forward to disable it. Bucky sent Hodge and Baker to get a sight on the bunker, then he and the rest of the men continued towards their target. He didn't radio to check whether Gusty's team had been successful. Didn't need to. Gusty was an old hand at this, and he liked vengeance a little too much.

They reached the bunker before Gusty's team; two of Wells' men were waiting in the rain, their rifles held ready to fire in their positions flanking the open door. From inside the bunker, he heard the echo of gunfire.

"Did Wells lead the team in?" Bucky asked.

One of the men shook their heads. "Davies did. Wells took the back door."

 _Damn._ He'd told Wells how he'd used the hatch to sneak in last time, but hadn't expected his friend to try the same thing. "Set up a perimeter," he told his sodden team, before turning to climb up to the machine gun position. It wasn't that he was worried about Wells' safety, but he could clearly recall the cold, empty expression in the guy's eyes as Bucky told him about Carrot's death. He wasn't sure if Wells was the kinda man to enjoy inflicting a little payback, and it wasn't something he particularly wanted to find out. One Gusty in the regiment was enough.

The hatch was still open, so he took hold of the ladder and climbed swiftly down. Rain pouring in had made the metal slippery; he slowed his descent when his boot went sliding on a wet rung and almost caused him to fall the last three feet.

He drew his pistol as his feet hit the ground, and thumbed off the safety. The door to the comms room was open, spilling warm yellow light into the dark tunnel. A pair of feet were sticking out into his view, the only visible part of a body fallen behind one of the communications consoles. Bucky's heart momentarily stopped beating. When he saw the colour of the pants above the polished boots, it resumed its regular functions. Those pants were not the olive-drab of a GI's uniform.

When he failed to spot Wells, he stepped out of his narrow, vertical tunnel shaft, and into the comms room. Then, he saw Wells. He was standing to one side of the door, pistol raised. Before Bucky could ask him what he was doing, the comms room door flew open to reveal an armed HYDRA soldier. The man's rifle was raised, and as he caught sight of Bucky standing next to the fallen officer, he braced himself and squeezed the trigger of his gun. Bucky's mind screamed at him to raise his pistol and shoot first, but he'd been surprised, and his reflexes were a split second too slow.

 _BANG! BANG! BANG!_

The shots made Bucky flinch, but the HYDRA soldier dropped like a sack of stones to the ground, and the reason for Wells standing beside the door suddenly made much more sense; anybody entering the room was running straight into a perfect head-shot.

Davies and the other three members of the strike team clattered down the corridor, coming to an abrupt stop when they saw the two dead bodies.

"Get 'em out of here," Wells instructed, holstering his pistol. As the men obeyed, he turned with a scowl for Bucky. "The hell were you thinking, Barnes? You almost got shot."

Bucky licked his lips. Sheer terror had given him a bad case of dry-mouth, but now the terror was wearing off, replaced with guilt. A familiar friend, these days.

"I'm sorry," he said. God, how often had he said that, this past month? "I didn't know what you were planning."

"What did you _think_ would happen when I shot the guy in here? It was _supposed_ to draw some of the soldiers away from the front door; give the others a chance to advance down the corridor."

"I guess I wasn't. Thinking, I mean." he admitted. He couldn't help himself. He glanced down at the comms officer. Two shots to the chest. The relief made him feel giddy. "I just wanted to… y'know… make sure you were okay."

"You don't trust me to get the job done without getting myself shot?" Wells demanded angrily. "Just because I can't juggle knives—" he held up his almost-healed hand as evidence, "—doesn't mean I can't carry out a mission without someone looking over my shoulder every five goddamn minutes."

"No, it's not that," Bucky told him quickly. "I just…" How could he explain? Subconsciously, his eyes jumped back down to the dead officer, and Wells made a pretty accurate guess.

"Oh. You just wanted to make sure I wasn't down here with the thumbscrews, sharing out some of the pain that seems to be going around these days." Bucky nodded mutely, and Wells sighed. He glared down at the body, then lifted his eyes to Bucky's face. "I thought about it. But what would be the point? Hurtin' these guys won't bring anyone back, and it would lower me to their level. Maybe even make me worse than them. When I get home, I want to be able to look myself in the mirror and know that all this ever was, was a job. That I came here, did what was asked of me, did it well, and didn't gaze long into the abyss."

Wells' admission brought Bucky some whole new levels of guilt. A Santa's sleigh full of guilt-wrapped gifts. He should'a had more faith in Wells. Should'a known his friend wouldn't do anything questionable like that. And because he'd doubted, he'd almost given the chaplain another body to bury. Almost screwed up the mission. Mentally, he kicked himself.

"I should'a trusted you," he admitted. Finally remembered to holster his pistol. Luckily, his hand wasn't shaking from his near-death experience. "I didn't mean to screw up your plan. I just… I guess I worry. About everyone, and everything. I've spent my whole life looking out for my brother and sisters, keeping an eye on them, trying to protect them… guess it's a hard habit to break."

Wells gave a soft grunt. "There are worse habits to have. Picking your nose, for example. Or cutting your toenails on someone else's bed. Just don't do anything like that, and I'll forgive you for the smothering big brother mentality."

The comment teased a smile across Bucky's lips. It was the first joke Wells had cracked since Carrot died. At least, he _hoped_ it was a joke…

"Wanna help me dig some graves?" Wells asked. "Two bucks says I can dig one faster than you."

"Yeah, alright." It was the least he could do, after he'd nearly messed up the op. And besides, he could always use an extra couple of bucks.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"I'm tellin' ya, Sarge, something isn't right," said Mex.

He kept up the running stream of chatter as he bounced between Bucky and Wells, who'd been summoned to the command tent. In the three days since they'd taken the last HYDRA bunker, everybody had grown increasingly tense. Even if nothing official had been said, they all unofficially knew that the mission was over. Since then, they'd had nothing to do but wait for new orders. It seemed finally, they'd come.

"Private Leonovics, from the 69th, he told me he was in his foxhole last night when a group from the 9th went out, and they came back two hours later with a civilian in tow. Stayed for an hour, then went back out, again with the civilian, and returned two hours later empty-handed. What do you think it means, Sarge?"

"I think it means Private Leonovics talks too much for his own good," Bucky told him. Hopefully, none of the 107th were unprofessional enough to spread gossip like that. It might be time to remind them of foxhole etiquette.

"When you find out what's going on, you'll let me know, won't you?"

"Sure," said Wells. "As soon as the brass confirm they want the news spreading all over the country, we'll come to you right away."

"Aww, Sarge—"

Mex didn't get chance to finish his sentence, because the trio arrived at the command tent, and Mex was forced to turn and leave, or be escorted away by two MPs standing guard outside the tent.

As soon as Bucky stepped inside the tent, he realised this wasn't a normal mission briefing. Colonels Hawkswell and Phillips were there, along with Carter and Stark. Captain Banks of the 370th, and Captain Aitkin of the 69th, were in attendance, along with Dr. Peacock and the highest ranking officers of the Engineers and Signal Corps. Both Bucky and Wells offered a salute, then joined the back of the long line of people far higher up the chain of command than either of them.

"Just over one month ago," Colonel Hawkswell began, his body practically rigid with official pride, "as we were beginning our mission here in the south of France, Operation Husky was being enacted by General Patton. This top-secret operation was a meticulously planned Allied invasion of Sicily, undertaken to give us a foothold from which to launch a larger campaign into Italy. It is my pleasure to announce that, six days ago, following a protracted offensive, Sicily was abandoned by the Germans and their Italian allies, and is now in the hands of Allied Command."

Inside Bucky's chest, his heart soared. They'd been so long without outside communication that sometimes it was hard to remember they weren't in this alone. That out there, the rest of the free world was fighting alongside them. These bunkers, they were trifles in comparison to the _whole island of Sicily._ How many men must have been lost in that campaign? How many tanks exploded, how many battles waged, how many families forever bereft of a son or a brother? It almost made Bucky feel bad for feeling bad about the few men they'd lost.

 _Almost._

"As such," Hawkswell continued, "we have been ordered to take part in the first series of incursions into Italy. Already, dozens of companies are being mobilised. In early September, the British Eighth Army and U.S. Fifth Army are expected to land at the southernmost tip of mainland Italy. Our orders are to hit the Nazis in the north, along our current latitude. Now, we don't have the ordnance required to mount a full-scale incursion, so our M.O. will be surgical strikes of key Nazi facilities; we're going to destabilise their operations in the area, and make it more difficult for them to send supplies to their troops in the south. Questions?"

Every hand was raised, and Colonel Hawkswell sighed.

"Yes, Captain Aitkin?"

"Sir, how will we be supplied if we cross over into Italy?"

"The same way as before; Allied Command will send planes to drop supplies at regular intervals. Captain Banks?"

"What are we to tell the men, sir?"

"Tell them the truth; that we're going to join the fight and show the Germans and the Italians just what American weapons are made of."

Stark opened his mouth—probably to tell the colonel _exactly_ what American weapons were made of—and promptly shut it again when Agent Carter stamped down on his foot with the heel of her boot.

"Sergeant Wells?"

"If we're mounting an offensive into Italy, sir, doesn't that mean we have to cross the Alps?"

"That's correct. The Italian-French border is one of the least guarded areas in the whole of Nazi territory. We'll be exploiting the weakness in their defences. It is imperative we cross the Alps before the season turns; once Fall sets in, we expect severe localised snowfall to hinder progress significantly."

There were no more raised hands remaining, although Bucky could tell by the look on a few faces that nobody was keen to cross the Alps, snowfall or no snowfall. Even Phillips didn't look particularly pleased about it. Obviously, this mission, like Matilda, did not fall under the remit of the SSR. Hawkswell had got his command back.

"We'll set out first thing in the morning," Hawkswell said, when it was obvious no further questions were forthcoming. "It will take two or three days of solid marching before we'll reach the foot of the Alps proper, but as we get closer to Italy, we also risk encountering _Luftwaffe_ patrols. To that end, we'll spend as much time as possible travelling at night, to avoid visual detection, and we'll send scouting parties ahead as we travel, to give advance warning of any—" He sighed when Bucky raised his hand. "Yes, Sergeant Barnes?"

"Sir, I think it would be a good idea to train additional staff in the use of the SSR-01 rifles. We currently have them in the hands of our best marksmen, but if we're jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, we have to face the fact that we're probably going to start losing more people. If we lost our best marksmen, we should have others trained to pick up the flag, so to speak."

"Not a bad idea," Phillips spoke up, before Hawkswell could respond. "Agent Carter, Mr. Stark, you'll select and train additional infantry members in the use of the weapons."

"You're all dismissed," Hawkswell told them. "Go and ensure your troops are ready to leave at first light. From this moment on, every step we take could lead us into combat. Make certain your men are adequately prepared. Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Wells, you two are _not_ dismissed. Please remain behind."

Bucky mentally cringed as he halted his swift march to the tent flap. As the rest of the officers filed out, he tried to figure out just what the hell he'd done wrong now. As far as he knew, he wasn't _due_ a chewing-out. He'd certainly kept out of trouble these past few days. Hadn't 'redistributed' anything recently. Hadn't been sneaking around doing anything he ought not to.

He and Wells faced front and centre, utilising their much-practised _stare over the brass_ _' shoulder_ gaze. When Colonel Phillips stepped up, his expression was unusually severe, his craggy face particularly hard. It made Bucky's heart lurch in his chest. Hawkswell hovered in the background, and behind him, Carter and Stark were watching, their faces blank, eyes unreadable.

"Sergeants," Phillips barked, and Bucky very nearly jumped. That _damn_ barking. Like a damn dog. He was never gonna get used to it. "It has recently been brought to my attention that we may have a problem. A serious problem. And, as with so many problems I seem to encounter these days, I find the two of you at the heart of it."

Bucky worked some moisture back into his mouth. His hands seemed to have the opposite problem; his palms were turning usually sweaty. "Sir?" he dared to ask. There couldn't be a problem. Especially not a _serious_ problem. Everything was fine. He'd been well-behaved. Wells hadn't dragged him into any new trouble. All previous trouble had been accounted for.

"The 107th lacks a commissioned officer to lead it," Phillips elaborated. "Therefore, after considering all of our options and taking into account your leadership and service on recent missions, it is our solemn duty—and potential regret—to bestow upon you both field promotions."

A _promotion_? That's what this was about? Then why the hell had Phillips seemed so dour about it? Suddenly, he caught the twinkle of mirth in the colonel's grey eyes. The bastard _enjoyed_ seeing people squirm.

"We can't promote you right up to the rank of Lieutenant," Hawkswell continued, stepping forward with new chevrons and pips in his hands. "But Staff Sergeant is a step in the right direction. And who knows; if you handle yourselves in Italy as well as you have in France, you may be commissioned before we reach Germany. Congratulations, Sergeants. I hope you'll continue to set a good—"

"Better," Phillips interrupted.

"—better example, for your men."

They both saluted, and Bucky said, "We'll do our best, sir."

Out in the open air, away from the eyes of the colonels, and Stark, and Carter, he glanced down at his new chevrons and took a deep breath.

"Imagine it," he said. "Our own commission. I mean, _commissions_. Plural. You'll get your own commission, 'cos you're not sharing mine."

"I don't wanna be a commissioned officer!" Wells groaned. "I'd have to be…" he shuddered for emphasis, "…responsible."

"You could order Dugan around. He's only a Sergeant."

Bucky could see him rolling the idea around in his head. Finally, he said, "Fine. I'll do it. But only so I can tell Dugan where he ought to shove his hat, then make it an official order."

Bucky merely grinned in reply. Just like his commendation, he knew he didn't deserve this promotion. He'd only got it because the 107th had run out of commissioned officers and senior sergeants. But then, Phillips and Hawkswell wouldn't have given him a new rank if he was _entirely_ undeserving. Tonight, he'd write a letter home and tell his folks, and Steve, all about it. They'd be happy for him, he knew it. He could already see the pride in his dad's eyes as he showed the letter to the guys at the boxing club and told them of how his son had gotten promoted already.

When he glanced at Wells, he saw a secretive smile tugging at his friend's lips, but he didn't think it was for the promotion.

"What's got you so pleased?"

Wells tried, and failed, to smother the smile. "I don't speak Italian."

Bucky rolled his eyes. He should'a known it would be something like that. "So, _Staff Sergeant_ Wells, how would you like to celebrate gettin' off the hook for translating?"

"Hmm. I have an idea. I think," he said, with a familiar mischievous gleam in his blue eyes, "we should sneak into the mess kitchen tonight and bake ourselves a huge, celebratory chocolate cake. Maybe twist Davies' arm, get him to give us some of that moonshine. Whaddya think?"

Bucky threw his arm around his friend's shoulders. "I think that's an excellent idea."

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: A couple of interesting facts! The date is now 23rd August 1943, and it is a Monday. In the 44 days that the 107th have been assigned to the SSR, they've loosely zigzagged approximately 330km across the south of France, most of it hauling heavy gear and equipment. That would equate to 7.5km per day, if they had spent every day travelling. As we've seen from their adventures so far, at least a third of their time has been spent undertaking missions and waiting for further instructions. Time spent travelling to/from individual mission sites, and undertaking reconnaissance, is not included in that figure. Our Heroes are understandably pooped! But maybe they'll catch a break in Italy… right?_

 _We_ _'ll now take a 2 week break and be back on 7th May with more_ _ **exciting adventures!**_


	47. The Deep Woods

We Were Soldiers

 _47\. The Deep Woods_

Bucky had always thought of himself as a fairly congenial guy, but he was swiftly coming to dislike what was left of the south of France. The closer they got to the Italian border, the more difficult the terrain became to pass. There was plenty of stunning scenery, most of which Bucky didn't see, because the brass made them travel predominantly from dusk till dawn. The nights they spent stumbling up and down hills which were swiftly starting to edge into _mountain_ territory were nightmarish not only for the difficulty of the climb, but also because of the additional punishments France inflicted on them, as if kicking them as they left to discourage them from coming back.

 _Chiggers_ , the medical staff called them. It started first with the 69th. A few of the men complained of itchy, blotchy welts on parts of their body. Soon, everybody was running to the hospital tent for calamine lotion to soothe their itches; the chiggers spared no-one, not even Agent Carter, who tried to pretend she wasn't surreptitiously scratching her shoulder and arm when she thought no-one was looking.

They got Bucky worst on the backs of his legs and underneath his belt, and he constantly had to fight the urge to scratch. Though itchy and annoying, the welts weren't particularly painful, and most people were back in their own tents as soon as they'd been doused in calamine.

Unfortunately, Gusty went and asked Nurse Klein what exactly chiggers _were_. Franklin and Hawkins were nearby, being doused in soothing lotion. Franklin, like most of the 107th, was a city boy born and bred, and when heard the welts were caused by mites biting the skin and releasing digestive enzymes so they could suck up the pre-digested skin cells, he freaked out. Claimed he could feel insects burrowing under his skin, crawling up his arms. Tried to remove them with a scalpel. He spent the next forty-eight hours heavily sedated and restrained to a hospital bed.

Then, the first case of malaria broke out.

One of the kitchen staff fell ill first. He was taken to the hospital tent shivering and shaking, and diagnosed with flu. When eighteen more people fell ill, the diagnosis was shifted to malaria. Not a severe form, according to Dr. Peacock, who was rather red-faced after his initial misdiagnoses, but an aggressive one. He guessed most of the infected men had been caught afoul a couple of weeks ago, when they'd camped on the edge of a boggy area, right next to a lake.

 _It_ _'s a wonder we didn't all drop dead of malaria the moment we landed in that swamp on day one,_ Wells had grumbled. He'd been particularly miffed that there was no vaccine for it. Back at Last Stop they'd all been stuck with needles till their arms went numb, but there was nothing that could be done to prevent malaria.

Poor Franklin got malaria, on top of his chiggers. Davies and Hodge came down with it, too, along with half the 107th, two-thirds of the 69th, and a quarter of the 370th. Two of the nurses were infected, along with members of the other groups within camp. With so many men hospitalised for treatment and rest, the brass had no choice but to call a stop to the forced marches. Twenty klicks west of the foot of the Alps, they set up camp, and waited.

Three days after the brass ordered the camp to be set up while the men recovered from malaria, Bucky found himself involved in a poker game with members of the 69th and the 370th. Half the usual players were missing, confined to their beds because there was no more room in the hospital. He was up on chips and had a good hand, but his usual enthusiasm for winning had been curbed by the knowledge that some of his friends were suffering.

"How's Captain Banks?" he asked one of the 370th—a dark-skinned young private named Jones. He was a regular at the poker table.

"About as well as anyone else," Jones replied as he threw two cards from his hand. "At least he's keeping food down. I hear some of the worst cases in the hospital haven't eaten in days."

"That'll make Hawkswell happy," Wells grumbled. "He's already ordered the mess staff to starve us; imagine how much food they'll save if some of the sick men aren't eating."

"At least it's not a serious form of malaria," said Dugan, puffing on his pipe. He'd won the thing in a poker game against the Engineers. Claimed it made him looked classy. The smell of pipe tobacco was strong whenever Dugan was around. "Could be worse."

A private from the 9th appeared from behind the 69th's tent, and offered a quick salute as he stopped in front of the poker table.

"Excuse me," he said, "but Colonel Hawkswell wants to see Sergeant Barnes and Sergeant Wells in the command tent right away."

With a sigh of regret for his wasted hand, Bucky folded. "Looks like it's back to work."

"I bet he'll have you digging new latrine pits," Dugan grinned.

"Then what would there be left for you to do?"

Bucky left the table and set off towards the command tent with Wells in tow. His friend rolled his shoulders, cracking them in a way that sounded painful.

"Maybe he'll send us fishing again. Like we don't have anything better to do," Wells complained.

"We actually _don_ _'t_ have anything better to do right now."

"Speak for yourself; I was planning to win that pipe off Dugan."

"But you don't smoke! And you were down by a considerable amount."

"Of course I don't smoke," Wells agreed. "Terrible habit. But I could'a deprived Dugan of his beloved prize, and that would've been worth it. And I wasn't down, I was getting the rest of the players to lower their guard before I made an amazing comeback."

Bucky was spared any further bullshit by their arrival at the command tent. They stepped inside, saluted, and waited for their orders. Both Hawkswell and Phillips were standing in front of the large map of Italy, their faces thoughtful as they studied the topography.

"Sergeant Wells," Hawkswell said, a vulturous gleam in his eyes, "I've recently been informed that you speak French. Is this correct?"

Wells cringed. "Reluctantly, sir."

"You reluctantly speak it, or reluctantly admit it?" Phillips chimed in.

"Both, sir."

"Hmph," Hawkswell puffed. "In that case, you're now our Italian translator."

Wells' face turned a shade paler, and Bucky's sympathy went out to his friend. But he didn't open his mouth to volunteer for the role instead. Better Wells than him.

"But sir, I don't speak Italian!"

Colonel Hawkswell grabbed a musette bag from a nearby chair, opened it up, took something out from it, and handed the 'something' over to Wells, who accepted it with as much reluctance as he'd admitted to speaking French. It turned out to be a book.

"Now you do."

Wells read the title aloud. "Italian Words and Phrases." There was a subtitle beneath it. " _For the casual Italian holiday-maker_. Sir, is this a joke?"

"Do I look like a man who makes jokes, Sergeant?"

Hawkswell's face was only one step away from a scowl, and Wells possessed enough sense to stay quiet at the rhetorical question. Phillips stepped in to elaborate.

"Sergeants, we're sending you on a vital mission. In order to get our company through the Alps, we need to know which routes are accessible, which are too dangerous to attempt to take tanks and the plane through, and where enemy emplacements might be located. It would take too long to perform our own reconnaissance, but luckily, one of our allies has come through for us.

"Several kilometres over the Italian border is the village of San Vinadio. There, an informant from the anti-fascist Italian Resistance will be waiting in a bar named 'Basilico' on the evening of September 7th. He'll meet you there, and you'll escort him back to camp so that he can provide us with the best route through the mountains."

"Sir," Bucky spoke up, "wouldn't it be easier to bring whatever maps he has back here?" Easier than bringing a whole man back, at least.

"Due to the nature of the information the man holds, and its importance to either side in the war effort, the accessible routes through the Alps have not been written down. The information is in his head, and we need his head attached to his fully functioning body to get the intel from him."

"I trust we needn't stress any further how important this mission is," said Hawkswell. "You'll have to cross into the Alps to reach the village, and we've calculated this should take you four days. If you leave first thing in the morning, that will give you five days to reach your target. Take a squad of men, and see the quartermaster for a couple of changes of civilian clothing; you'll need to keep a low profile once you reach the village, as our intelligence indicates a Nazi presence in the area."

"What's the contact's name?"

Phillips shook his head. "We don't know. But he'll recognise you by these scarves you'll wear underneath your civilian shirts." Hawkswell dug into the musette bag again, and brought out two lengths of cornflower blue material. "He'll join you at your table, you'll ask him if he'd like a drink, he'll tell you he's already had three that evening, and that's how you'll know who he is."

"So, he speaks English?" Wells asked cautiously, hopefully.

"Not a word," Hawkswell replied. "Why do you think we need a translator?"

"The going won't be easy," Phillips continued, further lowering their mood as he raised the challenge. "We'll give you rough maps and coordinates to the area, but you'll need to requisition additional supplies and ammo from the quartermaster. Ask him for some of the shelter half tents, too, in case the weather turns whilst you're travelling."

"Anything else, sir?" Bucky asked. From the expression on Wells' face, he ought to be chewing rocks. Still, it was better than sticking around camp listening to Franklin complain that he could feel insects crawling under his skin, or watching Dugan puff obnoxiously on his hard-won pipe.

"You have as much information as we have, Sergeant Barnes," said Phillips. "We'll be waiting your return in no more than ten days. Good luck."

As Bucky saluted, his hopes of being granted a jeep or two died. Maybe the brass didn't trust him with a jeep, after he'd already lost one. Maybe they didn't have enough gas to supply two jeeps on such a long-range mission. So far, whenever they needed gas, members of the 9th had been sent to trade in local towns and villages, but those times were rare, and as they crossed into the Alps, Bucky suspected they'd become much rarer.

Out of the command tent, and far enough not to be overheard, Wells finally vented his anger.

"I'm gonna kill somebody."

"Calm down," Bucky told his friend. "It's not like you're being asked to go storming some German facility all by yourself. It's just a simple translation mission, and I'll have your back."

"There is no such thing as a _simple_ mission where this company is concerned," his friend scowled. "Or have you forgotten our _simple_ mission to catch fish, or our _simple_ mission to recover a missed supply drop?" Bucky winced. Wells had a point. "I don't even _speak_ Italian, and this book is a joke. Literally, a joke. I learnt French by listening to it and speaking it, not by reading it. I can't learn how to speak a foreign language from a book. Especially not some stupid holiday-maker book." He turned to a page at random. "I mean, how many times will I have the opportunity to ask what sort of cocktails are available, or where I might find the best local beach? Europe doesn't have beaches, it has swamps. Swamps and chiggers and malaria and Nazis. I wish we'd been assigned to the Pacific; at least we might glimpse a beach from time to time, and I wouldn't have to do any translating at all. But no, we got Europe, which is vastly overrated. And the bits that aren't overrated are rubble. You say 'Europe' and people think of lazing around drinking wine, and the Louvre. I don't see the Louvre here. Do you see the Louvre? And the closest thing I've seen to wine is Davies' moonshine, which somehow manages to taste of potatoes even though it should be largely tasteless."

Bucky switched off midway through the rant, and Wells kept up the long diatribe of complaints until they reached the 107th's tent. There, he planted his hands on his hips until men began to wither beneath his malevolent glare.

"Alright, which of you bastards told the brass I can speak French?"

Nobody owned up to it, but Gusty paled and sat up from his bed. "Um, I might'a mentioned it to Audrey. See, we were talking about foreign languages, and she said how her family were Dutch but she didn't even speak a single word of it, then I told her about how you spoke French really well."

"Well, that's it. You told Nurse Klein, Nurse Klein told Agent Carter, Agent Carter told Colonel Phillips, and Colonel Phillips told Colonel Hawkswell. And as punishment for flapping your lips, you're now on the mission, Gusty."

Gusty paled further. "Err, what mission, Sarge?"

"We'll tell you when we've picked the rest of the team," said Bucky. He nudged Wells back towards the tent flap. "C'mon, let's figure out who we want to take, then we can requisition our supplies from the quartermaster."

Still grumbling, Wells let himself be led out of the tent, and the rest of the regiment watched them go. No doubt they were wondering what insane new events they were about to be thrust into.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

At sunrise the next morning, eleven men assembled outside the 107th's tent, fully kitted out for a long hike through rough terrain. Each man carried his haversack full of equipment, ammunitions and rations, topped with his sleeping roll and his half of a pup tent. Sidearms and knives were worn on the belt, bandoliers across the chest, and rifles were carried. Both Bucky and Wells had copies of the maps provided by Phillips, and their own backpacks had civilian duds shoved right at the bottom. First aid kits and cooking heaters rounded off the list of equipment.

Weighed down like a pack mule, Bucky suspected he'd be in trouble if he got into a firefight so heavily burdened with equipment. But there was no other choice but to take everything he needed and more. When he'd arrived in France, he'd thought it would be a walk in the park. Fifty days of marching and fighting had taught him that it wasn't so much a park, as a slightly more polite jungle full of its own particular dangers. Instead of lions and tigers and snakes, it held Nazis and land mines and enemy tanks.

He and Wells had spent several hours discussing their choice of men for the mission. Some had been picked out of familiarity, some because they possessed particular skills, and others because they seemed the most healthy and least tired of the regiment. Tex was their first choice, and he brought with him the SSR-01 that was deadly in his hands. Despite the minor injuries he'd acquired earlier in the mission, Biggs was fighting fit and as strong and steady as ever, so they'd included him, too. Mex had proven himself a quick and capable scout, and he had a way of keeping morale up whenever it dropped low. Gusty had a grudge to settle, and as much as Bucky wanted to keep him from gettin' too fond of killing, he couldn't justify leaving such a capable man behind. Hawkins, though still given to bouts of withdrawn quietness, was dependable and fit, unaffected by the malaria that had swept through so many men borne on tiny, blood-sucking wings. Baker, who'd been with Sergeant Weiss in England and had been on a couple of missions with Bucky, was their next choice. Finally, they selected Privates Pearson, Stoller and Marsh; three men who'd come over to Europe on the _Monty_ with the rest of the 107th, and who were quiet, hard-working guys—at least as far as enlisted men went.

They set out as soon as there was enough light to see by, their bellies full of breakfast the kitchen staff had cooked up for them. The troops had begun to wake up around that time, and a few had shouted out requests at the departing men. A mechanic from the motor pool wished them a speedy journey. Private Jones from the 370th asked them to bring him back a more comfortable bed. Dugan asked them to bring him a more comfortable bed _and_ a comely dame to put in it.

The weather stayed fine and bright all morning, and after an hour they had all taken off their jackets and slung them across their backpacks. The September sun lacked the intense heat of its July counterpart, but that didn't mean the days didn't get hot. The brass had given them five days to reach their target, and Bucky didn't want to arrive too early. Eleven men hiding on the outskirts of a village might be seen; it would be best if they arrived no more than twenty-four hours in advance of their rendezvous, and for that reason he kept them to a pace that didn't push them too hard.

At lunch time they stopped for a half-hour break to refill their canteens from a small stream—which they duly treated with halozone tablets—and eat some of the hardtack biscuits from their ration kits. Everybody but Hawkins grumbled about having to gnaw like a rodent on the hard, tasteless biscuits; Hawkins grumbled that they couldn't have the hard, tasteless biscuits more often.

After lunch, Wells took point and Bucky fell back to the middle of the line, to keep an eye on their surroundings. They'd made the men march in a strung-out line, in case of land mines or ambush, but so far the Alpine terrain had been suspiciously quiet. Though the route became more rugged as the passing hills grew into mountains, there was no sign of civilisation, and no indication that this part of France been sullied by so much as a single Nazi boot.

Evening fell, but their higher altitude extended the duration of dusk, so that when they finally found a sheltered area to set up camp for the night, they'd marched for almost eight hours straight. The temperature remained high even after the stars had taken the sun's place in the sky, so they brought out the cooking stoves to make a meal of their tinned rations, then settled down in their sleeping rolls without bothering with the shelter half tents.

The second day was like the first, only steeper, and Bucky began to wish he'd pushed the pace a little harder the day before. He considered himself fit, and all the men were used to marching, but none of them had much experience marching up hills and mountains. New York was pretty damn flat, and each climb made the men sweat anew. Downhill slopes were a welcome reprieve from the leg-aching uphill stretches.

At midday, they stopped for lunch and to review their route, to see if they could find a less mountainous path. They couldn't, and so resigned to their struggle, they soldiered on. That night they made camp in a deep depression—Wells called it a 'ditch', which was technically accurate—in a shallow-sided valley, their view of the stars obscured by broad-leaf trees which reminded Bucky of the trees that lined the sidewalks of New York and proliferated in Central Park. With his belly full of baked beans and his legs aching in new and unpleasant ways, he closed his eyes and tried not to think about the next two days' worth of rigorous marching.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Birdsong pulled Bucky's mind from sleep, and he opened his eyes to the pre-dawn murk of the woods. Quiet snores issued from the uncomfortable ditch. Behind him, Gusty's snores were the loudest. In front of him, Wells slept silently, his eyes roving beneath his closed lids. It seemed a shame to wake men who were sleeping so soundly, but he didn't have to check the time with whoever was on watch to know that they'd need to get moving soon. Daylight was precious, and wasted on dreaming.

"Wells," Bucky said quietly. "Wells!"

Goddammit. Wells might not snore, but he was one of the deepest sleepers Bucky had ever known. The guy could probably sleep through a blitz.

He reached over to shake his friend's shoulder. "Hey, Wells, wake up."

Wells blearily opened his eyes and looked at Bucky for a moment, his gaze unfocused. When his eyes finally did focus on Bucky's face, he shot upright practically out of his sleeping roll and let out a yell of alarm that had everybody else up and reaching for their weapons while they were still half asleep.

"Wus goin' on?" Tex drawled. His pistol was drawn, his eyes searching the ditch for an absent attacker.

"Jeez, don't do that to me, Barnes," Wells said as he gasped for air.

"False alarm," Bucky told the rest of the team. "But now that you're all awake, let's get packed up. Breakfast on foot today." The men grumbled and glared daggers at Wells, and Bucky turned to his friend. "Don't do what? Wake you up? I do that every day. It's not my fault your lazy ass could sleep through anything." Wells shook his head a couple of times, his blue eyes watching Bucky warily as he sank back down into his bed roll. "Why so jumpy?" Bucky asked him.

Wells ran his hand through his hair, working out the kinks from sleep, and took a deep breath. "Bad dream. I was being chased by this big, hairy, German _fr_ _äulein_. Woke up, saw you, thought you were a big, hairy, German _fr_ _äulein_."

"Lucky for you, I'm not."

"Yeah. Lucky for me." Wells grimaced and kicked off his blanket. "Wish there was somethin' to eat worth hunting around here. I'm fed up of rations."

"Have you ever hunted anything before?" Despite Wells' talk of spending time in Wyoming on his uncle's ranch, he didn't think his friend had done much in the way of shooting before joining the army.

"Other than Krauts?" Wells shrugged. "No, but Tex has. Maybe he could shoot us a pheasant or something."

"Ah'm not rightfully sure ah'm comfortable doing that, Sarge," Tex spoke up. "It's not right, people eatin' people."

"Pheasants, Tex," Bucky said. "Not peasants."

"Well, if you see a pheasant, point him out t' me and ah'll see what ah can do."

Within fifteen minutes, every man was awake, dressed for the march, and fully packed up. They waited patiently while Bucky brought out his compass and map and checked their bearings. Finally happy with their direction, he nodded to himself and put the map away.

"I'll take point. Tex, I want your sharp eyes on the lookout for enemy troops. First sign of movement, call it out, but nobody shoots unless we're being shot at. We don't know who else is out here, and I don't wanna go hitting any friendlies."

Wells stepped forward. "I'll take the rear. I mean, err, I'll cover our six."

Bucky shot a questioning look at his friend. It wasn't like Wells to hang back; he liked to be up front, or right in the middle of the action. 'Last man out' wasn't something he had a problem with, but it wasn't a role he usually volunteered for. But Wells was too busy checking the clip his rifle to notice Bucky's glance.

"Alright," he agreed. "Let's move out."

Bucky took lead file and set a pace he hoped the men could keep all day. The going was no easier than it had been the day before. Whenever they were forced to cross open fields, he pressed the pace harder when he had a good feeling and a clear view of everything around him. When the views were less clear, when the feelings were less benign, he made them move in a crouch, keeping below the skyline where they had to crest hills.

For almost two hours they marched, until they came to a short, steep rise terminating in a rugged summit. At the top, he dropped to the ground and signalled the men to do the same. Together, they crawled forward, looking down into a densely wooded valley. Wells stopped beside him and pulled out a pair of field binoculars. After a moment of looking through them, he handed them to Bucky, who did the same. The only thing he saw were trees. Trees as far as the eye could see, an interminable carpet of green, their trunks so close, their canopies so dense, that the whole of the undergrowth was in heavy shade.

He handed the binoculars back. " _The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_ " he said, as Robert Frost's poem sprang to mind.

"And probably crawling with Germans. Not exactly what I'd call lovely." Wells sighed. "Damn forest looks too wide to circumvent. Guess we're going through it, huh?"

"We'll go quick, quiet and careful," Bucky assured him. "A couple of hours, and we'll be out the other side."

"I'm gonna hold you to that."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The sun had long since begun to sink and was kissing the horizon by the time Bucky called for a stop. By his reckoning, they were on the edge of the forest. It had gone on for much further than he'd anticipated. Now, it would be their bed for the night. An uncomfortable bed of gnarled tree roots and moist, compacted soil covered in the remnant of last year's layer of dead leaf litter. He instructed the men to look for a suitable place to sleep, and Biggs found a flat bit of land not far from a small stream, which was screened off by a thick cluster of prickly briar bushes. They broke camp, washed the sweat from their aching bodies in the stream, then began bartering for food from their ration kits.

Bucky made his way over to Wells, who'd rolled out his sleeping bag and blankets on the edge of the group and was currently sitting cross-legged atop them, his _Italian Phrasebook_ in his hands and a faraway look on his face. When Bucky sat down next to him, the faraway look vanished, replaced by a blank mask.

"Y'okay?" Bucky asked him.

"Sure."

"You've been quiet all day."

Wells scowled at him. "Needed head space. That a crime?"

Bucky shook his head. He'd learnt better than to argue with Wells when he was in a pissy mood. Instead, he nodded at the phrasebook. "How's it going?"

"Badly. Do you know why I became an accountant, Barnes?" Bucky shook his head. "Because my brain works with numbers. Not words."

"I don't recall you ever havin' a problem with words before."

"In my language, yeah. This?" He held up the phrasebook, then hurled it at the ground a few feet away. It hit the dirt and sent fallen leaves flying. "Fuckin' useless."

Bucky offered no argument. He merely got up, retrieved the book, dusted it off, and sat back down, holding it out to his friend. After a moment of glowering contemplation, Wells snatched it back.

"Whaddya need?" Bucky asked.

"Someone who speaks fuckin' Italian."

Bucky winced. Two cusses in two sentences, on top of an act of irritated annoyance. Wells was either in a foul mood, or faking it real well. Part of Bucky wanted to sympathise, but the other part of him knew that the bigger a fuss Wells made about the difficulty of his task, the more prodigious his success would seem. And really, how different could the two languages be?

"'Hello' in French is 'bonjour,' right?" he asked. Wells nodded. "What about in Italian?"

"Ciao."

"And 'my name is' in French?"

"Je m'appelle."

"Italian?"

Wells thumbed through the book until he reached the right page. "'Mi chiamo.' See? They're nothing alike. But it's not just that… this book is a goddamn dictionary. It doesn't tell me anything about grammar and syntax or about the composition of sentences or any of that past-tense bullshit. Any goddamn monkey could read phrases out of this thing, but phrases aren't enough to establish a dialogue. Useless piece of crap." He closed the book and gripped it tightly, like he might throw it again at any moment. "I should'a gone to officer training school. I could'a been a captain by now."

"You'd still have to do the same shit jobs," Bucky pointed out.

"Yeah, but I'd be getting paid a lot more for doing 'em. It's not fair. I shouldn't have to do this. Davies should be here; his dad's mostly Italian, he probably speaks enough of it to get by. But no, Davies just had to go and get malaria, the selfish bastard."

"I don't think he would've chosen to get malaria, if he had a say," he assured his friend. "But like I said, if you need anything, just let me know. I can't do much about the Italian, but maybe I can find some way to make things a little easier for you whilst you're reading that book. For example," he offered, "I could cook you a hearty meal of beans."

Wells wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Hodge told me the last time you cooked beans, you burned them. I don't trust you to supply food."

Bucky sighed and pushed himself to his feet. "Alright, fine. Be stubborn, if you like. I was just trying to help."

"I don't need your help," Wells called after him, as he made his way back to where Tex had set up a cooking stove. "I'm perfectly capable of screwing this translation thing up on my own."

He didn't bother responding. Wells seemed to be itching for an argument, probably to distract him from trying to learn Italian, and Bucky thought the last thing the guy needed right now was somebody to distract him more than he already was.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

By the end of their fourth day of travel, Bucky had seen all he ever wanted to see of the Alps. The air was clean, the countryside was beautiful, and at night, the stars sparkled like diamonds cast roughly across a cover of black velvet. Despite the picturesque views that he wished he could capture on film and send home to his family as evidence that not all of Europe was a muddy, blitzed war zone, he was tired of the Alps. Tired of walking up steep mountainsides, and then scrambling down the scree-strewn slopes. Tired of crossing meadows of tall grass that could've hidden whole squads of Nazi soldiers. Tired of making the men sleep in shifts, so that there was always somebody on watch. And he was tired of eating food that was cooked over a tiny stove.

A couple of miles out from San Vinadio, Bucky called a halt and the men sank wearily down. It was late afternoon, and they'd made good time, but despite their lengthy march, there was still work to be done.

"We need to reconnoitre the area between here and the village," he said, as Mex pulled off his boots and began rubbing feeling back into the soles of his feet. Bucky was as dog-tired as any of them, but he was still trying to be a good sergeant, as well as a good man. The good man in him would give them a short break. The good sergeant would send them out to get the lay of the land and allow them to plan an exit strategy for if things went sideways. "Five two-man teams. I want to know how much traffic comes and goes from the town. How many Nazis are stationed there, if any. I want to know what all the buildings are, and how rough the terrain is between here and there. Wells, you'll stay here to continue working on that book, and the rest of us will rendezvous back here at seventeen-hundred."

The men began to pair off and move away; all except Biggs, who waited behind for Bucky like the last kid to be picked for a side in dodge ball.

"Gimme a couple of minutes," Bucky said.

When Biggs moved away, Bucky checked over his rifle as he eyed his fellow Sergeant. Wells had dumped his sleeping roll on the bare ground and was sitting atop it with his back against a wide tree trunk. He held the open Italian phrasebook in his hands, but his eyes roved vacantly over it.

"Look, I know you don't want to do this, but we're counting on you to pull off the hardest bit of this mission."

If anything, that made Wells look even _more_ miserable. "I wish you wouldn't," he said, his blue eyes fixed on the foreign phrases before him. "I'm not very trustworthy. Inherently unreliable, in fact."

"I don't believe that."

"You'll see," Wells said sullenly.

Bucky crouched down in front of his friend. He had no idea what Wells' problem was, but he suspected it ran deeper than having the weight of the mission put squarely on his shoulders. After everything they'd been through, all the combat ops, the adventures, the madness, Wells had never buckled under pressure. Maybe the whole Italian translation business had been the start of his ill mood, but Bucky was willing to bet it wasn't the end of it. Right now, he couldn't afford for Wells to be in a mood.

"When I was drugged and paranoid and ran off looking for my best friend, you came after me, unarmed, tied up Agent Carter, threatened to shoot her, and then saved my life and practically carried me all the way back to camp. If you're trying to convince me that you're not trustworthy, you're going to have to do a better job than that."

Wells refused to meet his gaze. "I just mean you shouldn't count on me. I'll let you down. Maybe I won't mean to, maybe I don't want to, but I will."

"You haven't so far. But so what if you do? You're only human, just like any of us. I've lost track of how many times I've let myself—and the regiment—down. That first mission, when we lost Danzig, I froze. Couldn't see a way through, until you pulled us out with your crazy 'surrender' plan. And what about our last mission? I nearly ruined your plan and got myself shot. I also picked a path that was too close to a ridge with a sheer drop, and we lost someone else for my mistake.

"I could go on. My point is, you don't have to be perfect. You're allowed to make mistakes. In fact, I insist on it. And if this translation business is too much, then don't sweat it. Just do the best you can, and whatever happens, we'll deal with it, just like we dealt with everything else so far, because you know I've got your back. Right?"

"Yeah." Wells sighed and finally looked up, his gaze guarded. "Guess I've just had a lot on my mind."

Bucky nodded. It had been harder to get a joke outta Wells since Carrot died, and he didn't have to be a mind-reader to know that the young corporal's death had hit Wells hard regardless of how much he tried to deny it. But Wells didn't have the chaplain to talk to, so he was probably sitting on whatever was bothering him, hoping he could get through it on his own. He probably didn't realise that he didn't _have_ to.

"You better get going," Wells prompted. "Sun'll be gettin' low soon."

Bucky shouldered his rifle as he stood. "Alright, but keep an eye on your surroundings, as well as that book. I don't wanna get back and find some sausage-eating Kraut's got the drop on you."

That elicited a snort of disdain. "Barnes, please. I'm not some buck private who can't tell which end of his rifle to hold and which to point at the enemy. Now, go henpeck Biggs for a change; I've got a lot of reading to do."

He joined up with Biggs and they set out in the direction of San Vinadio. Hopefully Wells' mood would be improved by the time they had to interact with the locals tomorrow. If not… well, he'd deal with that later. For now, he had a village to scout.


	48. San Vinadio

_Author_ _'s note: San Vinadio is a fictional village, and can't be found on any map. There is a town named Vinadio which is similar, if you'd like a Google for a visual. Also, the only Italian I understand is the sorts of words you'd find on a piece of sheet music, so unlike for French and German, all mistakes this time are_ entirely _the fault of Google Translate._

 _Ciao!_

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _48\. San Vinadio_

Bucky pulled off his boots and tugged his pants down his legs. The warm evening air slid across his skin as he grabbed the pair of civilian pants he'd been given and shoved his feet into each leg. The clothes were made of softer material than his military uniform, but they didn't mould to his body in the same way. The shirt pulled across his shoulders. The pants were a little big around the waist. The jacket was short on the sleeves and chafed the dry skin on his elbows. The shoes rubbed uncomfortably against his big toes. He had no mirror, but he could picture himself in the dusty grey pants and the off-white shirt beneath the faded brown jacket, and in his mind's eye, he looked odd.

He glanced over his shoulder. Wells, with his back to him, was almost finished with his own change of clothes. It was the first time Bucky had seen him dressed in something other than GI duds, and he looked as odd as Bucky felt. Wells' clothes weren't quite as ill-fitting as Bucky's, but then, Wells wasn't quite as broad across the shoulders, and the jacket he'd been given had a more generous sleeve length.

As Wells finished dressing, Bucky pulled the length of cornflower blue material from his bag. Strong doubts about this method of identification assaulted his thoughts. What if the neckerchiefs weren't the right shade of blue? What if there were other guys in that bar wearing blue scarves? What if the Nazis had been tipped off, and were on the lookout for men wearing them? Would it be better to put the scarves on once they got to the bar and made sure no other men were wearing them? No… that was stupid. Two guys donning scarves in a bar would look suspicious. They had to stick to the plan.

He tied the scarf around his neck. He tied it too tight and it choked him, so he untied it and fastened it differently. Now, one end hung low, dangling down his chest. With an irritated huff, he unfastened it and wrapped it around his neck in a different way. Again, he did it wrong, and wasn't left with enough material to tie it off with. A glance at Wells, who was checking over his pistol, showed him his fellow sergeant had managed to fasten the scarf around his own neck in a way that looked natural, like it wasn't some awkward prop to attract the attention of a member of the Italian resistance.

Bucky took a step towards Wells and clapped his hand on his friend's shoulder. Wells flinched, almost dropping his pistol.

"Kinda jumpy," Bucky pointed out.

"Of course I'm jumpy," Wells grumbled absently as he slid his ammo clip back into his Colt. "We're about to do something completely mad, and I don't know about you, but I haven't been trained for this covert sneaky stuff."

"We'll improvise." He held out his creased scarf. "Can you help me with this? Without a mirror, I can't see what I'm supposed to be doing with it."

Wells pursed his lips in disapproval, but he shoved his pistol into the inner pocket of his jacket and grabbed the blue scarf. "Jeez, I thought you were past the age of needing someone to dress you. I don't need to fasten your shoelaces as well, do I?"

"No, but if you wanna polish my boots when we get back to camp, I won't complain," he offered.

"In your dreams, Barnes."

When Wells had finished tying his scarf, Bucky pointedly _didn_ _'t_ lift his hands to see how it felt. Though he was used to wearing a tie for his civilian job and formal occasions, he wasn't used to a scarf, and he knew he'd only spend the whole evening toying with it, drawing attention to it, if he let his hands wander.

He checked his own pistol to make sure it had a full clip, then they returned to the rest of the team. They had their own orders to carry out, and as much as Bucky wished he could stay and oversee them himself, he didn't wanna risk Wells going into that village with anyone other than him. Gusty could keep an eye on the team and make sure they were all in place, but Bucky wasn't _entirely_ confident that Wells could handle his side of the mission. If things were going to go south, they wouldn't go south out here, in the middle of the woods; they'd go south in the village, right in the middle of the damn place.

"You know what you've gotta do?" Bucky asked Gusty.

The corporal nodded. "But if you ask me, it's a waste of perfectly good rice. Why can't we just cut the fuel lines?"

"Because fuel lines can be repaired." He checked his watch. "Eight o'clock. I've no idea what time our contact is meeting us, so keep your eyes open and your bags packed. If all goes well, we'll be back in a couple of hours with nobody the wiser to our presence. If things go sideways… be ready for a firefight."

"Don't worry, Sarge, we'll be in place."

"Ready?" he asked Wells.

"I'd feel a whole lot better if I could bring that phrasebook with me."

"How would you explain an Italian phrasebook written in English, if somebody saw you with it?"

For a reply, Wells pulled out his Colt from his jacket pocket and gave it a small wave through the air. "The same way I'd explain possessing a GI-issue sidearm if somebody saw me with it."

Bucky had to admit, Wells had a point. The phrasebook was something no Italian citizen ought to have. But then, so was the pistol.

"Okay, bring the book."

Wells grabbed the book from his musette bag, slid it into his jacket pocket, then shoved the pistol down the back of his pants, wedging it between his shirt and his belt for easy access. Then he nodded, indicating his readiness.

They carried no bags as they set out towards the village. The only weight Bucky carried was his Colt pistol and the few Italian lire lining his pocket. He had no idea where the colonels had gotten Italian currency from, but they'd provided just enough to ensure two men could order a couple of beers each while waiting for a rendezvous, and no more. Bucky intended to make his beers last as long as possible. He didn't wanna do this mission while tipsy, and he had no idea how strong Italian beer might be.

The village of San Vinadio sat nestled snugly in a narrow valley. Its small roads had been draped loosely up the steep valley sides and were bordered by old grey stone buildings. The highest building in the valley was the church; its white, regal spire seemed to reach to the heavens like a pillar of sun-bleached bone, and was topped with a simple white crucifix. By comparison, the village's one and only bar was at a lower altitude, built right on the valley floor. Bucky imagined that the villagers spent their days travelling up the hill in the morning to visit church, and then down the hill in the evening to drown out their woes.

His team had surveilled the village from a distance for the past twenty-four hours, and the map they'd drawn had been detailed enough for the purposes of their mission. Keeping out of sight, they'd identified several key buildings, including the small house halfway up one of the valley slopes where a group of Nazis were holed up. What the Nazis were doing there was anyone's guess, but Mex had gotten a good view of their communications equipment, and he believed they were a message relay post. If that was true, it was a much more humble affair than HYDRA's communications bunkers had been.

"I'd like to stress again that this is a terrible idea," Wells said quietly. He trod softly beside Bucky as they walked towards the lights of San Vinadio's houses. Ahead, the first of the evening's stars were making their slow trek across the deep blue sky. Wells continued, his eyes scanning the ground for stray rocks or tree roots that might trip him. "I can speak French with a slight Parisian accent because that's what I grew up hearing, but I dunno what an Italian accent's supposed to sound like. I'm gonna come across as some dumb Yank who picked up a holiday phrasebook and thought he could pass as a local."

"Just do your best," Bucky told him. "Hopefully we won't have to speak to anyone other than our contact, so it's not like you need to pass yourself off as a local. And if push comes to shove, try some of those Italian lines with your slight Parisian accent. Then maybe you'll sound like a dumb Frenchman who picked up a holiday phrasebook." He stopped and waited for Wells to glance up at him. "Once we reach that village, we're not gonna be able to talk. I mean, at all. Not even in whispers. We can't be overheard. We know there are Nazis in that village, but there might also be German spies or sympathisers. I mean, the Italians _are_ willing Nazi allies. Things won't be like they were in France."

"I know. And don't worry, I've already got a code worked out. If I need to draw your attention something, I'll kick your leg under the table."

"Gee, thanks, you're a real pal." He cast his gaze to the nearby lights of the village. It looked quiet enough. "Well, let's get this over with."

As they reached the nearest road, Bucky's mind went back to France, to the little village in which they'd left Matilda. This place had the same sort of old-world feel to it; the buildings sprawled at angles instead of being organised into neat rows like the streets of New York, and no building was over two or three storeys tall. But, unlike Aureille, the people here didn't seem to live in fear of the Nazis; their leaders had welcomed them openly, and in the course of their surveillance, the team had seen Nazi officers come and go from their post to the shops and the church with little or no response from the locals.

They found _Basilico_ easily; it sat on the eastern side of a tiny courtyard illuminated by a single street lamp, and at the centre of the courtyard was a bubbling fountain in the shape of a cherub playing some sort of heavenly horn. Water spilled out from the horn, splashing around the cherub's feet. As they approached, he saw a couple of men cross the courtyard and enter the… pub? Tavern? Bar? He wasn't exactly sure what the Basilico was classed as. Maybe there wasn't a word for it in English. But more importantly, the men did not stop and stare at Bucky and Wells, which meant their disguises were passing. From their shirts to their shoes, they looked like nothing more than a couple of labouring men.

When Bucky gestured to the bar, Wells nodded, his face pale in the dim twilight. For the first time since leaving for the mission, his heart started beating rapidly. Taking a deep breath, he tried to control it, to _will_ it to resume a more regular rhythm. Mind over matter didn't seem to be working, so he ignored his racing pulse and made for the door of the bar.

The inside was smaller than he had imagined, the tables wedged close together, the ceiling so low that he felt the urge to duck as soon as he stepped through the door. A thin smoky haze clung to the ceiling, and the once-cream-coloured walls were stained a darker shade of nicotine-yellow. The walls were adorned with colourful paintings, and bunches of dried herbs hung upside down from behind the bar; Bucky thought they might be oregano, but it was hard to smell anything over the miasma of beer and cigarette smoke.

The room, animated by the quiet mumbles of voices speaking in Italian, grew quiet as Bucky and Wells stepped into sight. Men halted their conversations mid-sentence to glance over the strangers. Their roving eyes took in their dusty shirts and worn jackets, their ill-fitting pants and their thin-soled shoes. Then, their conversations resumed, their eyes sliding away. Just two more men looking for work as they felt the pinch of the war on their purses.

Bucky made a quick visual assessment of the room. A table in the corner appealed right away. In the corner, he and Wells could sit with their backs to the walls and see all who entered. Nobody would be able to sneak up on them. But then… nothing said 'clandestine' like a table in the corner. Instead, he chose an empty table in the middle of the room, and took a seat as a young, tired-looking woman carrying a serving tray made her way over. She stopped at the table as they both pulled their seats in, and rambled off a short sentence in Italian. Bucky listened in rapt fascination; it sounded nothing like the French he'd heard spoken in Aureille. The woman's words rose and fell in a musical lilt, as if she sang her vowels instead of speaking them.

"Due birre, per favore," said Wells, holding up his hand in a 'two' gesture, just to be absolutely sure he was getting his point across. The woman rambled something else, and Wells clearly didn't understand, because he repeated, "Due birre."

That seemed to do it. Whatever the woman was asking, she gave up and went to the bar to pour two beers. While she wasn't looking, Bucky handed all of the change in his pocket over to Wells, and let his friend count out however much money he thought was going to be needed. The beers materialised, and Wells gave the barmaid a few of the coins. She returned two of them, along with a couple of smaller coins in change. With the look of somebody thoroughly fed up by her lot in life, she left them alone and went to see to the needs of other patrons.

To wash his mouth of the taste of everyone else's cigarette smoke, Bucky picked up his beer and took a small sip. It was nice, much nicer than the ale they'd been forced to drink in England; it tasted fruity, and though it wasn't as cold as he would have liked, it did a decent job of making his mouth taste less like an ashtray.

Unfortunately, Wells went and ruined the moment by pulling out a packet of smokes and some matches. He lit one of the white sticks for himself, then offered the open pack to Bucky with a look in his eyes that said, _Everyone else is smoking, and we want to fit in, so_ _…_

Swallowing his sigh, along with another mouthful of beer, Bucky took one of the smokes and the matches. He stuck the damn cigarette in his mouth, but drew the line at puffing on it. He'd just let it burn down on its own.

They sat in silence, nursing their fruity beers, Wells smoking and Bucky not-smoking. As he sat there, drinking slowly, pretending to smoke, he tried to keep his gaze down. Tried not to peer curiously at the faces of the men who shared the room. Any one of them could be their contact; or perhaps their contact had yet to arrive. Perhaps he was the lone man in the corner, reading a book by the light of a hurricane lamp. Or maybe he was one of the three men at a long table playing some sort of card game. Maybe he was the man at the bar, busy reattaching the strings of some sort of banjo-looking instrument. Perhaps he was one of the men from the group of five who were engaged in some loud, animated discussions that involved lots of frantic gesticulating.

He was just in the process of lifting his beer for another small sip when the bar door opened to admit two new patrons. When his eyes fell on their uniforms, he froze, and his heart skipped several beats. _Nazis!_ He forced his arm to keep moving, to bring the glass to his lips. His beer, once so fruity and delicious, was now tasteless. He fixed his eyes on a knot in the wood of the table so they couldn't follow the Nazis as they walked past and took the seat in the corner of the room. Both men wore their sidearms openly, and their boots were the cleanest things in the whole place.

Almost without thinking, he took a puff on his cigarette. When he realised what he'd done, he tried to exhale swiftly, but ended up swallowing some of the smoke. He coughed long and hard, his face burning hot the more he tried to suppress the cough. Opposite him, Wells looked like he was ready to carry out his threat of kicking under the table.

Several gulps of beer was enough to end the coughing fit, and Bucky fell to taking slow, shallow drags of the cigarette. Now was not the time to pretend to be smoking. Now was the time to pretend like he really enjoyed smoking and that he did it every day, whilst inside his head, his mind had a minor panic. What if the presence of the Nazis was enough of a deterrent that their contact decided to bail? What if more Nazis arrived? What if they already knew about the meeting, and had come along to arrest Bucky and Wells and the member of the Italian Resistance?

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. Whose stupid idea had it been to meet this guy in the middle of a goddamn bar? Why couldn't they have met him by some quiet stream, or in the middle of one of those empty meadows? It was madness. It was holiday-making madness, topped with cherries of insanity. The next time Phillips wanted some clandestine rendezvous, he could send someone else. Maybe trying to talk Italian would wipe the smug off Dugan's face.

The Nazis were clearly a regular feature. The barmaid didn't need to take their order; the barman poured two beers and sent her over to the corner table. Italian lire were handed over in exchange, and then the barmaid went to serve somebody else, apparently unconcerned that she'd just brought drinks to men who probably spent their spare time murdering Jews and plotting world domination.

The seconds ticked by as minutes. The minutes became hours. And about ten hours after the Nazis had entered the bar, Bucky was reaching for his second cigarette. Opposite him, Wells was affecting an air of casual indifference, and managing it a lot better than Bucky. Hell, if he didn't know better, he might even think Wells hadn't _seen_ the damn Nazis, except that his blue eyes glanced over them once or twice as he seemingly took in some of the paintings adorning the walls. He looked at ease in his seat, and puffed on his cigarette as if it was the most fun he'd had all night.

Bucky didn't dare glance down at his watch, to see whether this nightmarish turn of events really _had_ distorted the passing of time. Only men who were waiting impatiently looked at their watches, and he wasn't waiting impatiently; he was enjoying his beer, and his foul-tasting cigarette, and relaxing without a care in the world except his rapidly beating heart, which felt like it was trying to escape out of the bar and run as far away from this situation as it could get.

As the hours ticked by, the Nazis called out something in rough Italian, and the barmaid returned to their table. A conversation ensued, and Bucky watched from the corner of his eye. They were asking her something. She responded, and they asked her something else. One of them gestured at Bucky's table, and his heart leapt into his his mouth. He washed it back down with a mouthful of beer. He was getting through the beer too quickly. Soon he'd have to order another.

Then the Nazis were rising. Walking. Strolling over to Bucky's table, straight-backed, confident, arrogant. Bucky kept his eyes down. Mad as it seemed, the idea fixed itself in his head that if they looked at his eyes, they'd know he was American. Somehow, they'd know, and then he and Wells would get arrested and the mission would fail. If he didn't look at them, they couldn't see the guilt, and the lies, and the American-ness in his eyes. If he didn't look at them, Wells would find some way to fix this before things could get ugly.

The two men loomed ominously over the table. They weren't particularly tall; probably not as tall as Bucky and his friend when they were standing. But he and Wells _weren_ _'t_ standing. They were sitting, and they looked like poor labourers, while the Germans were polished and coiffed to perfection. It seemed to give them extra height.

One of the Nazis said something in Italian. The words came out wrong, harsh and angular, not at all like the lilting songs of the locals. Wells glanced up and gave the man a look of brazen blankness. The man repeated whatever he said. Wells opened his mouth to reply, and Bucky closed his eyes. This was where it would all fall apart. They'd hear one word of Italian from his mouth and know that he didn't speak it any better than they did.

"Non parlo Italiano," Wells said. "Nous sommes simples ouvriers agricoles à la recherche de travail. Nous avons perdu nos emplois quand un raid aérien Anglais a détruit la ferme de notre employeur, et nous avons entendu qu'il y avait du travail à faire ici."

The Nazi repeated his question, and Wells repeated his response. "Non parlo Italiano."

It seemed the message got through. Wells didn't speak Italian, but he could ramble in French with the best of them. One of the Germans glanced up to take in the rest of the room, and for the first time, Bucky noticed all other activity had stopped. Nobody was speaking now, not even in hushed whispers. The card game was halted mid-deal. The barmaid stood as if frozen in time, a bottle in one hand, empty glass in the other. When the Nazi said something aloud to the patrons, one of the men from the group of five stepped forward. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead, and he dry-washed his hands as he approached half-bent at the waist, as if unsure whether he ought to bow.

 _Sweaty countenance. Dry-washing. Kow-towing. Never a good sign._

More conversation happened, and Bucky felt completely and utterly helpless. The Nazi said something in broken Italian to the man, and the man said something in French to Wells. Wells said something back, and the man translated it into his Italian song. Bucky swore to himself that after this mission was over, he was gonna make Wells teach him how to speak French. He _hated_ not knowing what was happening, and maybe if he spoke French, he and Wells could've spoken privately in public before now, instead of sitting here in their stupid, American silence.

He didn't speak French, but he was beginning to recognise words. When the man translating gave Wells another sentence, Bucky picked up a couple of the words, and the sound of them made the blood drain from his face.

"Ils croient que vous êtes avec la Résistance Française."

 _French Resistance?_

No no no, this was bad. Couldn't those stupid Nazis tell the difference between Americans and the French Resistance? Wells' French wasn't _that_ good.

Wells gave a tight smile, shook his head, and offered a response. "Ils se trompent. Nous sommes des fermiers à la recherche de travail. C'est tout."

More talk. The Germans seemed to be getting more and more annoyed. Bucky wasn't the only one who saw it. The men playing cards left their game on the table and slipped out the front door. The barmaid disappeared out back. The rest of the patrons watched the exchange with expressions of horrified fascination. Clearly, they understood both sides of the conversation, whilst Bucky was left understanding bupkis.

"Ils disent que vous allez avec eux pour les questions. Si vous essayez de résister, ils vont vous tirer dessus," the translator said.

Bucky had no idea what he said, but as soon as he'd said it, Wells finally brought his gaze across to Bucky's face. The look in his blue eyes didn't need translating. It said, _This is going to get messy, fast._ Then, Wells loosened his grip on his cigarette, making it appear to have slipped from his grasp as it dropped to the floor at the Nazis' feet.

When Wells reached over the side of his chair to pick up the fallen smoke, the Nazis were so busy watching his left hand that they didn't see his right hand dip behind his back in a movement that was seemingly for counterbalance. But Bucky saw it. Even as Wells straightened up with his Colt in his hand, Bucky pushed himself to his feet and grabbing his glass, throwing the contents into the face of one of their aggressors. Wells shot the first Kraut point-blank in the stomach, and Bucky took advantage of the second German's surprise to smash the beer glass into his dripping face. It hit with a solid _crunch_ , and the Nazi screamed in pain as glass shards pierced his skin and sank themselves deeply into his cheek and nose. Even as he was screaming, he was groping for his sidearm, but Bucky swiftly stepped back and allowed Wells a clear shot. This time it hit the centre of the chest, and the man crumpled to the floor with a gurgling wheeze of expiration.

It happened so fast that it was a few seconds _after_ the violence that Bucky felt adrenaline course through his body. Screams and cries of alarm pierced the night air. All of the bar's patrons had fled, and people in the nearby houses had been disturbed by the sound of gunshots. Of their Resistance contact, there was no sign.

"We gotta get out of here," Bucky said. He pulled his own Colt from the back of his pants and made doubly sure the safety was off. _Fool me once_ _…_

Wells gave a quick nod. "We tried. I doubt our guy's even in this village. Probably got picked up by Gestapo or something. And pretty soon, the rest of the Germans in that house they've commandeered are gonna hear the screams and come looking for their buddies."

"I'll take point. Stay close."

Things were happening in the courtyard when Bucky poked his head out. Lights came on in the houses all around. Curtains twitched. He could hear the songs of men and women yammering at each other loudly from behind closed doors. He waited only as long as it took to make sure there were no more Germans lurking in the shadows. At a run, he set out across the poorly lit stone flags, dodging the cherubic fountain. His heart was… surprisingly steady. Now that the worst had happened, he could deal with it. He didn't have to live in unknowing anticipation, questioning, doubting, imagining. The nail-biting fear of the unknown was gone, replaced with the familiar fear of getting shot.

Shadows beckoned, and Bucky picked the deep shadows of the village's small school to run to. They embraced him, wrapping their cool darkness around his body, protecting him from prying, hostile eyes. Wells fell in behind him, his breath a ragged pant that seemed loud until Bucky realised _he_ was panting loudly, too. Not from exertion, but from tension. The mission had gone sideways. The most important thing now was getting his team out. Later, he'd have to explain to the brass what had happened, and take responsibility for the failure. It was something he would happily do, if only he could get everyone back in one piece.

"I take it your 'I'm actually French' excuse didn't fly?" he asked, as he pressed his back against the shadowy wall and tried to ignore the way his body trembled with nervous tension.

He couldn't see Wells' face in the shadows, but he could hear his dry tone of voice. "Yeah. We were strangers in a small town, with no real reason to be there. If I'd had longer to think, I might've come up with something more believable than a 'farm hands looking for work' story. Guess we don't look the farming type."

"At least you tried. Now all we've gotta do is—"

"Mi scusi!" a voice called from the shadows behind them.

Bucky jumped and spun, his arm leaping up with his Colt tight in his hand. Wells' gun was up too, his hand so tense around the grip that his knuckles were white. Slowly, a figure appeared from the shadows. It was a man, dressed plainly, his face familiar. His aquiline nose had been broken at least once, and his brown eyes were fearful as he stared down the barrel of two pistols. Bucky placed it first.

"He was in the bar, reading a book in one corner," he told Wells. Then, to the man, "Who are you? Why are you following us?"

"Ero di incontrarvi in Basilico, ma avevo bisogno di essere sicuro che i Nazisti non avrebbero preso insieme."

"Wells?" Bucky asked, not removing his gaze from the man's face for even a moment.

"Damned if I know. Non parlo Italiano, remember?"

"Maybe he's our contact. Ask him the question." And maybe, just _maybe_ , this mission could be salvaged.

Wells dipped his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and brought out the phrasebook. He put his pistol away so he could thumb through the pages.

"I thought you had the question memorised?" Bucky accused.

"Yeah, but that was before I had to ad-lib a load of French and kill two Nazis. Stress does nothing for my short-term memory. Ah, here it is. _Vuoi qualcosa da bere?_ "

The man blinked, and said, "Ho già avuto tre oggi."

"That's it," Wells announced, closing the book and pocketing it. "The countersign."

"Are you sure?" If Wells was wrong, they could be taking a spy back to their camp, and he'd had quite enough of German spies to last a lifetime.

"Positive."

"Really? Because thirty seconds ago, you'd forgotten the pass phrase."

"Yeah, but I remember the counter. Trust me, Barnes. If I thought this was the wrong guy, I'd put a bullet in him right now."

Voices from the courtyard behind them grew louder as people started leaving their houses. In his mind, he could picture them crowding around the bar, glancing in at the dead—or dying—Nazis. Wondering what had happened. Sending for the rest of the Germans in their tiny base. Soon, the other Nazis would give chase. There was no time to doubt Wells, or ask for the book so he could cross-examine the man himself. He'd just have to trust his friend was right, and that they weren't leading a wolf to the flock.

"Follow me," he said. "And tell that guy to stick close."

"You," Wells said, pointing at the man's chest, "stay close. Closi."

Bucky shook his head. He was pretty sure that wasn't Italian, but he had more important things to think about right now. He set off, sticking to the shadows, making his way around houses, ducking under windows, slowly heading in the direction of the woods. Whenever he heard voices, he froze, blood _whooshing_ through his ears as he waited for the voices to pass. Twice he saw men—civilians—patrolling the streets with rifles, but clad in his shadows, he was safe from their eyes.

On the outskirts of the village, where the settlement met the woods, they found Tex and Stoller waiting. A little further away, Hawkins and Mex were peering through binoculars, keeping a close eye on the action in the village.

"Sarge, Gusty's ready and waiting at the rendezvous point," said Tex.

Bucky nodded. "Lead the way."

They stepped into the deeper shade of the trees, and the twinkling lights of the village grew dimmer. Thirty seconds later, a pair of engines roared down the road behind. They sounded like they were getting closer.

"That'll be the Krauts looking for us," said Hawkins.

Suddenly, the engines began coughing and spluttering. They choked themselves to death, a noise punctuated by the fading call of angry German curses.

"That'll be the Krauts realising we put rice in their radiators," Mex said, a grin in his voice.

"Now, imagine if we'd had popcorn kernels to put in there," said Tex.

Bucky smiled, and the adrenaline finally stopped coursing around his body. They weren't out of the woods yet, and they had quite a way to go before they'd be safe from German pursuit, but they had a head start, and they knew where they were going. With a little skill and a lot of luck, they'd be back at camp while the Nazis were still scouring the area for non-existent French Resistance members. Perhaps Wells' subterfuge would not be in vain after all.

* * *

 _Note 2: I forgot to mention last week, but you can check out a related one-shot fic called "The Letter" by fanfic writer_ _by7the7sea: it's a really sweet look at present-day Bucky making good on his promise to check up on Samantha (Carrot's girl), and can be considered canon for my story so far and for the events of_ Running To You _._


	49. Pressure

_Author_ _'s note: This chapter is kinda sorta M-rated-ish. Those with an aversion to visceral detail may feel a little squeamish._

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _49\. Pressure_

They walked for all of the night and most of the next day, eating as they marched, stopping only to refill their canteens from clear mountain streams. Bucky's feet ached. His legs ached. His back ached. But he pushed the men until late afternoon, when the sky began to cloud over and threaten rain. They found a spot on the edge of a small pine forest where a stream bubbled lazily over rounded pebbles, and there they made camp.

"Slavery, thy name is Barnes," Mex complained, knuckling his back. "Seriously, Sarge, I hope you packed plenty of medical tape in those first aid kits, because my feet are about to drop off. In fact, they might already have dropped off six hours ago. Somebody check my feet; are they still attached? I can't even feel them anymore."

Bucky ignored the complaining, turning his attention instead to the sky. The white clouds were turning decidedly grey. "Set up the tents," he instructed. They'd brought ten halves of shelter half tents, and they had twelve men. That meant they were a tent short. But if they kept watch on a two-man rotational shift, there would be enough tent for everyone.

He glanced around for Wells, to tell his friend to get over and help set up their tent, but Wells was already halfway to constructing a tent with Hawkins, so he gestured for Gusty to join him instead, and prayed silently to God that the corporal wasn't feeling particularly nervous today. It only took a few minutes to seal the poppers, insert the poles and peg the guy lines. They soon had a campsite of five perfectly serviceable pup tents.

A couple of men brought out their camping stoves, and they pooled some of their rations together to provide a meal of baked beans, hard bread and impossible to chew chocolate that claimed to be Hersheys but tasted nothing like how Hersheys ought to taste. They talked as they cooked, because talking had been kept to a minimum while they were travelling. Bucky recounted the tale of what had happened inside the _Basilico_ bar, and Gusty, Mex and Hawkins described how they'd gone sneaking through the village to fill the Krauts' car radiators with rice.

"I still think we should'a cut the fuel lines, too," said Gusty. "Imagine the mess if they'd 'accidentally' caught on fire!"

"Imagine the collateral damage, you mean," Bucky told him. "We weren't there to make a noise and blow things up. Not that time. The brass wanted it done quick and quiet."

He eyed their new acquisition as the men kept up the chatter. The Italian hadn't said very much during the journey, and the few things he had said hadn't made any sense, because nobody spoke Italian, and Wells was doing his best not to learn any. The man was currently pushing a helping of beans around a metal dinner tray somebody had used and then washed for him, and he didn't look particularly impressed about what he was being fed. Now seemed an appropriate time to get to know their new friend a little better.

"Ask him what his name is," he said to Wells, nodding in the direction of the foreign man.

Wells pulled an unimpressed face. "But my little book o' translations is in my tent, and I'm too lazy to move." Bucky aimed a pointed stare at him. It was a stare that had always gotten Charlie to eat his vegetables, when he'd been six years old and disinclined to eat anything green. "Fine." Wells clicked his fingers until the Italian was looking at him, then pointed to himself and said, "Mi chiamo Wells." He pointed to Bucky. "Barnes." He pointed to the Italian.

"Roberrrrtoh," the man replied. At least, was what it sounded like to Bucky's ears.

"He says his name's 'Roberto,'" Wells offered helpfully. "I say we call him Rob, for brevity. Or Bob, I'm fine with Bob. Bobby. Whatever."

"And are we _positive_ he doesn't speak any English?" A fine set of fools they'd look using Wells and his infant-level of Italian if the guy understood every damn word they said. Bucky could already imagine Roberto's report to the brass. _"And then those buffoons fed me beans and some sort of rock they called bread, and continued to insult my language with their puerile attempts at speaking it."_ Stark would just love that.

Wells shrugged. "Parla Inglese?"

The man shook his head.

A hopeful light appeared in Wells' eyes. "Parla Français?"

Another head shake, and the hopeful light faded. "Of course. Why would you speak French? It's a useless language. Even more useless than yours."

"We should get an early night," Bucky said, before Wells could begin a whole new rant. "We've marched hard, and we still have three more days of travel. Gusty and I will take the first watch."

How quickly the men retired to their tents was a measure of how exhausted they were. Nobody suggested poker, or dice, or stories. Bucky asked Biggs to keep an eye on Roberto, and the big man directed the Italian to his tent. Roberto didn't look please about _that_ , either; Biggs took up almost a whole tent's worth of space by himself.

"You think we're in any danger, Sarge?" Gusty asked quietly, once they were alone. They sat around one of the rapidly cooling cooking stoves, rifles laid across their knees. Bucky kept both hands on the rifle.

"My gut says no," Bucky told him. "But my gut said 'no' when I sent you out with Tipper and Biggs. It said 'no' right before we were ambushed and Carrot was shot. I'm not sure I trust my gut as much as I used to."

Gusty nodded, and spent a few moments in silent contemplation. When he spoke again, it was with a scant smile on his lips. His eyes were fixed on the distant peaks of the higher Alps. "I've come to realise that any moment might be my last. Even though we're not in the thick of the fighting yet, death can come from anywhere. I never really thought of death as a force before. I just associated it with something that happened to people when they get old. But it's not. It's a force that acts according to its own whims, and it could come for any one of us, at any time. Maybe tonight. Maybe next week. Maybe after the war, when I get back home and I'm crossing the street and some guy ploughs into me with his car because he wasn't paying attention to the road."

"If you're trying to keep up the communal cheer, you're doing a piss poor job," Bucky told him. Hell, even Wells' sulking would've been preferable to Gusty's melancholy musings about death.

"All I'm trying to say, Sarge, is that we all gotta die some day. It's our job to try and make the most of what time we have before we run out of it. Being here, in this war… it's made me realise that I was wasting my life back home. Don't get me wrong, I hate living like this, never knowing which moment's gonna be my last, or which friend's gonna be the next to die. Always hungry, often soaked, tired and aching and sent on missions I have no say in. But it's given me perspective. When I get back home, I'm not gonna waste a single day. And when the war's over, I'm gonna ask Audrey to marry me."

A smile graced Bucky's lips even as a twinge of envy rippled through him. Gusty had known Nurse Klein for only a few short weeks, and he already knew she was _the one_. It was a surety and confidence Bucky had never experienced. Each time he started seeing a new girl, he wondered if she might be _the one_. Steve had accused him of falling in love at the drop of a hat, but he didn't think love was what he had fallen into. Attraction, maybe lust, certainly affection. He cared about each and every dame he'd ever dated, even the ones who'd ditched him when they realised he didn't want anything too serious.

"I'm happy for you, Gusty," he said. "And also expecting an invite to your wedding."

"Of course you're invited," Gusty assured him. "Can't get married without my best man, can I?"

Bucky's eyebrows shot up. "Me? Your best man?"

"If you wouldn't mind," the corporal rushed on. "It's just that I've no brothers, and the only cousin I have who could fill that position is an obnoxious jerk. The friends I had back in civvy life… well, they're good pals, but I doubt any of them would take a bullet for me. Not that I expect you to, of course. I'm just sayin'."

"I would be honoured to be your best man, Gusty." The request set a warm fire burning gently in his chest. _Bucky Barnes – Best Man._ It had a nice ring to it. "Just let me know when I need to start preparing my speech."

Gusty grinned. "I will. But do me a favour?" Bucky nodded. "Don't let Wells help you write it."

"Don't worry. It'll be all my own work, straight from the heart, no bullshit. And any jokes I tell will actually be funny."

"Thanks, Sarge. That means a lot to me."

They fell into a congenial silence. Some of Bucky's friends in civvy life were already married, but he'd never been a best man before. Always figured it would be a position he lost out on in favour of brothers or close relatives, at least until his own brother got married. Or, by some miracle, Steve found a dame he could be happy with. Bucky's best friend wasn't _averted_ to dating, per se, he just didn't have the confidence for it. Had yet to find a girl who didn't look down her nose at him just because he was kinda short and awfully scrawny. Dames could be pretty damn shallow, at times.

Bucky turned his eyes to the area around their tent, but in his mind, he was already planning Gusty's bachelor party.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The early morning dew dampened their boots and the legs of their pants as they crossed a wide open meadow the next day. They'd set off at first light and ate breakfast as they walked. After half an hour, Baker had spotted a huge spider's web suspended in the tall meadow grass; the dew clung to it in minute droplets, each one refracting the light of the rising sun in tiny, beautiful prisms of rainbow colour, a delicate web of lace strong enough to hold up even beneath the weight of the water. In the middle sat a big, fat spider, lord of its domain, gorged on myriad flies. After a few moments of appreciation for the amazing feat of architecture, the team moved on.

The attack came without warning. One moment they were in an empty meadow of tall grasses and delicate flowers, the next they were being shot at from all directions by men wearing the grey-green uniforms of German infantry. There was no time to shout out commands for offence or defence. As soon as the first shot was fired, Bucky dropped and slipped into survival mode. His eyes scanned his surroundings for the first of his enemies while his hands brought his rifle up in to firing position. He pushed the rest of his team to the back of his mind. There was nowhere to retreat to, and no cover to be sought. All he could do was hope.

Shots screamed through the air. Bucky's finger hugged the trigger of his rifle so closely that the smallest squeeze fired off a shot, and he fired every damn shot he had until his rifle was outta ammo. Sinking down to the ground, he reloaded, and let his mind focus on the rest of the team. He heard the steady _ratta-tatta_ of gunshots around him, and some of his concern faded. His men returned fire as cool and collected as any combat veterans. They'd done this often enough to know how to do their jobs.

The sound of gunfire swung around from the west, and two of his men altered position to cover the group's flank. A few paces back from Bucky, Roberto was pressed so close to the ground that he might've been kissing it. _Smart guy_ , Bucky thought, as he took aim at something moving through the tall grass and dropped another Nazi with a shot to the chest.

He reloaded again, and his thoughts strayed momentarily to the small villages and towns dotted around the Alpine valleys. Could they hear the gunfire from all the way up here? Did they wonder at the sound? Did they look to the cloudless sky, confused about the sudden barrage of thunder? He didn't get chance to wonder for long. As soon as his new clip was in his gun, he sighted again, no hesitation as his finger squeezed the trigger.

The fight seemed to to last forever. After five minutes, or five hours, the gunfire finally stopped. They'd run out of targets to kill.

"Everyone okay?" Bucky yelled, over the stammered pounding of his heart in his chest.

He received a chorus of 'yes' before Biggs called out, "Sarge, Stoller's been hit!"

The fright in the big man's voice set Bucky running, and he wasn't the only one. He arrived at the downed man's location at the same time as Mex and Wells, to find Biggs cradling Stoller's head as the pale-faced soldier panted and cried out in pain. A deep red pool was forming beneath him, blood soaking into the olive drab pants on the inside of his right leg, just above the knee.

The first thought that hit Bucky's mind was _shit_. It was followed immediately by a wave of panic. He reached back with his memory, back to boot camp, to the advice they'd been given about dealing with bleeding wounds. Wells was one step ahead of him, kneeling down on the outside of Stoller's leg, calling for a medical kit. Bucky took the inside of the bleeding leg and tried to push the panic away, to focus on helping Private Stoller instead of fixating on _what if I screw up?_

Mex pulled out his first aid kit and handed a pair of scissors to Wells, who started to cut away the trouser leg. As soon as he did, the wound was exposed, scarlet liquid pouring out in a veritable flood. The words of the medical technician who'd put the men through their emergency aid training back in boot camp came echoing back across the months.

 _Apply direct pressure to the wound. If a soldier loses more than three pints of blood, he_ _'s dead. Stop the bleeding. That's the most important thing._

Bucky dropped his gun and used the heel of his palm to press down on the gaping hole in the leg. _Exit point_. That meant there was probably a similar hole on the other side of the leg. _Shit_. Blood pooling out instead of spurting; vein hit. Not an artery. That was good, but still dangerous. Too much blood. It was still managing to flow out from beneath his hand, warm and slippery, so he added his left hand, and leant over the wound, letting gravity do his work for him. Right above where Bucky was pressing, Wells added more pressure, trying to stop the blood before it could reach the wound. Wells' breath was a rapid, ragged wind on Bucky's face, and he wondered whether he sounded just as panicked as his friend.

"M—my leg hurts," Stoller whimpered. "Oh god, it hurts." Bucky dared to glance up into Stoller's bedsheet-white face. Biggs had the guy's head on his knees, but that just meant Stoller could look down and see the blood. The guy was shaking, shock starting to set in. And that wasn't the only problem they had.

"Morphine tartrate," Wells snapped at Mex.

Wells couldn't see Mex, because the guy was standing behind him, but Bucky could see him. His normally bronzed face was almost as white as Stoller's, and his brown eyes were wide as they watched the blood flow out from beneath Bucky's hands.

"I… I've never done this before," Mex stammered out, not even looking at the kit in his hands. "I… I don't know what to do."

"You got the training in Basic," Bucky told him. Patience. Getting angry wouldn't help. Anger would lead to panic. He couldn't afford to panic because he had his hands half inside some guy's leg, feeling warm blood seeping out between his fingers, the muscles all sinewy and _oh God was that bone?_ He closed his eyes. Tried not to sway. Felt giddy.

"Don't you fuckin' pass out on me," Wells growled. Bucky thought he was talking to Stoller, but when he opened his eyes he found Wells watching him with a scowl. How the hell did he do it? How the hell did he sit there feeling some guy's life slip away and not want to throw up everything in his stomach? "It's just blood," Wells explained, as if hearing his thoughts. "Don't think about what you're doing, just do it, and _where the fuck is that morphine?_ "

"H—here Sarge," said Mex, holding out the small tube, still with its cap on. "But… I don't do so good around blood."

"Mex, I swear, if you make me let go here just to stick that under the skin, I'm gonna kick your ass."

More men arrived; they stood in a circle around the five on the ground, watching in grave silence.

"Listen, Mex," Bucky said, because Wells' threat didn't seem to be having any effect. He waited until the private looked at his face, and tried to _will_ some calmness into him. Calmness that Bucky himself was only just finding. "Pierce the cap and take it off. Pull up Stoller's shirt. Grab his skin and stick the needle halfway into it, then squeeze the tube. That's all you gotta do. No blood."

"I… I don't think I can do it, Sarge. I… I need to be sick." Mex dropped the syrette and crawled a few paces away, retching and heaving onto the ground.

"Where the hell's Gusty?" demanded Wells. " _Gusty!_ "

"Here, Sarge." Gusty ran up and dropped to the ground, panting.

"Pick up that syrette. Give Stoller the morphine. Then get a tourniquet ready."

Bucky's heart leapt into his mouth. While Gusty busied himself with the morphine, he leant forward a little more so that he could whisper beside Wells' ear without the rest of the men hearing.

"We can't put a tourniquet on him."

"We can, and we will," Wells whispered back.

"You know they're only supposed to be used in life or death situations. If we tighten it too much, he loses his leg."

"Then we won't tighten it too much. But he might lose it anyway." Wells glanced up at him, a sheen of sweat on his face and an uncompromising hardness in his eyes. "The alternative is we sit here trying to stem the flow of blood until his blood pressure drops so low that we lose him. Look around. We're in the middle of a field. The Nazis caught up to us once and may have more reinforcements on the way. We don't have an hour to sit here; we need to get moving, and we can't do that with us up to our arms in Stoller's leg. We put the tourniquet on, we get back to the forest we passed through yesterday, we loosen the tourniquet and see if the bleeding's stopped."

"How many tourniquets have you applied in live situations?" Bucky asked, suspecting the answer even before it came.

"None. But I say, try everything once. Worst case, we lose his leg. Best case, we save his life." Wells gave him a grim smile. "I'll handle the tourniquet. You keep the pressure on. But we could do without the audience. Get rid of everyone who isn't us, Gusty and Biggs."

Bucky nodded in thanks. Wells could'a given the orders, but Bucky had momentarily lost his head, and now his friend was getting him back on a familiar path. Taking his mind away from what might go wrong, and re-establishing a little order.

"Tex, Hawkins, check those Krauts for anything useful. Pearson, Baker, go sit on the perimeter in case we got more Krauts crashing our party. Marsh, make sure Mex is okay. Give him a drink, get him cleaned up."

The men scattered to obey, seemingly grateful for a chance to be useful, to do _something_. Bucky understood how they felt, because he felt it, too. All he could do was sit there feeling blood pour out from beneath his hands, and wonder whether his memory and authority would have kicked in if Wells hadn't been there and gotten his head into gear first.

They worked fast, now that they had a plan. Gusty had given the morphine to Stoller, prepared the tourniquet, and was now cutting away more of the thick material from around the private's leg. Bucky watched the metallic _snip snip snip_ of the scissors, because it was better than watching blood.

"I've heard this is complete agony," he said at last.

"It's too soon to give him more morphine," said Wells.

"Alright. Biggs, how's he doing?"

"Not good, Sarge," said Biggs. The big man's hands were cradling Stoller's head, brushing his hair in a comforting stroke as the guy's eyelids flickered rapidly. "I think he's in shock. You know, the bad kind. Not the kind that can be fixed by a lie down and a cup of cocoa."

"Hypovolemic shock is caused when there's not enough blood circulating the body," Gusty said. "Without immediate blood transfusion, it can lead to organ failure."

"Y'know," Wells said, "I always wondered what Corporal Ferguson–Nurse Klein pillow talk sounded like. Now, I don't." He continued before Gusty could splutter out an objection. "We don't have the training for a blood transfusion. And even if we had the training, we don't have the equipment. Let's get this tourniquet on and hope it's enough."

"Biggs," Bucky said, "when this goes on, it might hurt him like hell even with the morphine in him. Try to keep his head still."

Biggs merely nodded. He was starting to look pale, too. Did Bucky look as pale? Wells and Gusty seemed to be okay. Maybe some guys just had a higher threshold for seein' blood. And feeling it.

Gusty seemed to be remembering his basic medical training just fine. Bucky watched as he slid the tourniquet around Stoller's thigh, just above where Wells' hands were pressing down on the vein or the artery or whatever, and slid his knife scabbard underneath as an impromptu twisting stick. "Y'want me to do the tourniquet, Sarge?"

Wells shook his head. "You've got clean hands. Grab the sulfanilamide and a bunch of the gauze. Once I start to apply this, mop up as much of the blood as you can. We need to be able to see what's fresh, so I know when to stop turning the tourniquet. Once it stops bleeding, get the sulf on right away; we don't want to give infection a chance to set in. Everyone know what they're doing?"

Bucky nodded. So did Biggs and Gusty.

"Alright. Applying tourniquet now."

He watched as Wells quickly switched places with Gusty, letting go of the leg and picking up the knife scabbard. His hands slipped and slid a few times—they _were_ drenched in blood, after all—but he worked swiftly to tighten the tourniquet, until Stoller began to mumble and groan. The injured man's eyelids flickered again as new pain nearly roused him back to consciousness.

"Mop up," said Wells, as he turned the scabbard more slowly.

Bucky released the pressure he'd been putting on the leg; his hands _ached_ like they never had before. He hadn't realised just how much pressure he'd been using, and it still hadn't been enough to stop the blood flow. He suspected, now, that Wells might be right; Stoller would probably lose the leg. The very thought made his stomach turn, but he forced himself to sit and watch as Gusty used the gauze to absorb blood and apply more pressure, discarding bloody bandage after bloody bandage. After what seemed like an eternity, the bleeding slowed, and with a final twist of the tourniquet, it stopped. Gusty ripped open the sulfanilamide packet and sprinkled the contents directly onto both sides of the wound. Wells sat back and ran a sleeve across his forehead, his hand shaky as he lowered it.

"He's still breathing," Biggs said, breaking the silence. "But he's out cold."

"Stay with him for now," said Wells. "If he stops breathing, or if that leg starts bleeding again, yell real loud."

"I'll watch him too, Sarge," Gusty offered.

Bucky hauled himself to his feet and followed his friend a short distance away. Wells pulled out his canteen and said, "Hold out your hands." Bucky waited for the water to slowly pour out, and tried to wash away as much of the blood as he could while they pondered their new dilemma.

"Stoller really shouldn't be moved," said Wells, passing the canteen over once Bucky's hands were relatively clean, so that Bucky could return the favour. "But I don't see that we got a choice. We can't stay here. Ideally we need a stretcher. At the very least, a splint to keep his leg straight and still while that tourniquet works its magic. But we're a half day's swift march out from that forest and I didn't see any splints in that medical kit."

Bucky watched as Tex and Hawkins turned the Kraut corpses over for anything useful. The guns were tossed aside, but any ammo which fit their own weapons was kept. It gave him an idea.

"What if we unloaded a couple of those German rifles and tied them together, end to end?" he suggested. "Stick one end through Stoller's belt, and use bandages or something to lash his leg to the rifles. One guy could carry his feet, holding the rifle stock on the right leg to keep it still, and another guy could take under his arms. Then, when we get to the forest, we could maybe try to use all the bandages we've got to make a stretcher?"

Wells clapped him on the shoulder. "Genius. But let's take those Kraut jackets; they'd be more useful for a stretcher than bandages."

Bucky nodded. He hated the idea of stripping the dead—even dead enemies—but this was war, and they were desperate. Besides, dead men needed no jackets.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Stoller mumbled and moaned throughout the night. He wasn't asleep, but he drifted in and out of consciousness as his pain ebbed and flowed. Bucky lay awake in his bedroll, listening to the agonised moans. Around him, most of the men were sleeping, but he couldn't.

It had been two days since Stoller had been shot, and they'd only just reached the middle of the dense forest they'd passed through on their way to San Vinadio. Fear kept him awake for the second night in a row. Fear that if he closed his eyes for even a moment, Stoller would die, and there would be nothing Bucky could do about it. If he stayed awake, listening to the mumbles and moans of a man whose leg was withering and dying, he could at least try to _will_ some life into him. To silently encourage Stoller to _hang in there_. To silently pray that the mumbles and moans would continue, because he feared the moment they stopped.

After eight attempts to remove the tourniquet, it became obvious it would have to stay on. They'd stopped every ten minutes to loosen the device, and each time they'd watched the blood continue to pour out. The bleeding just wouldn't stop, so they'd applied more sulfanilamide and tightened the tourniquet one last time. Now, they couldn't take it off without killing him.

Another moan from Stoller made Bucky's stomach clench unpleasantly. It was obvious the guy was in agony, but there was nothing he could do about it. Tex and Baker were on watch, and they were taking it in turns to talk quietly to Stoller, to reassure him and dampen handkerchiefs with water from their canteens, which they used to wipe the cold sweat from the injured man's face. It was the only comfort—other than morphine tartrate—that anybody could offer him.

They'd managed to fashion a makeshift stretcher for Stoller out of narrow sapling trunks and the Kraut jackets they'd recovered, but the going was slow. Steady, but slow. They'd only brought enough food for ten days of travel, maximum. Soon they would run out of food. And morphine.

Whenever Bucky dared to close his eyes for a moment, he heard the voice of Sergeant Weiss in his ear. The dead man told him to be a good sergeant. To be hard, for the rest of the team. Dead-Weiss didn't have to say the words Bucky didn't want to hear. He didn't have to tell Bucky to leave Stoller and continue with the mission. He didn't have to say it because Bucky had already considered it and dismissed it. He wouldn't leave a man behind. Never ever. And if that made him a bad sergeant, then he could live with that.

An hour later, Tex 'woke' him, along with Gusty, for their turn at watch. Gusty yawned widely and sat up rubbing his eyes, but Bucky was wide awake. Every mumble and groan was seared across his brain. He instructed Tex and Baker to get some sleep, ordered Gusty to take his gun and sit at the camp's perimeter, then made his way to Stoller's side.

The private had roused, his eyes dull and weary in the moonlight. He hugged his arms to his chest and shivered; Bucky grabbed his own bedroll and lay it over the injured young man.

"I'm sorry, Sarge," Stoller whispered. His voice was hoarse, and full of remorse. "I screwed up."

It suddenly struck Bucky that he didn't even know how old the guy was. Before the mission, he would'a guessed mid-twenties. Now, lying injured and in pain, he seemed no older than his late teens.

"You performed bravely," Bucky told him. "Biggs told me he saw you take out at least two of those Nazi bastards."

"I'm slowing you down. Endangering the mission."

"Bullshit. I actually like the delay. The longer we spend out here, the less chance Phillips has to send us on some other hare-brained mission. We're all enjoying the fresh air and the excellent views. You just concentrate on keeping up your strength, and let me worry about the mission."

Unshed tears pooled in the private's eyes. He rapidly blinked them away, his bottom lip quivering when he spoke again.

"You should leave me behind, Sarge. I'm dead weight."

Inside his chest, Bucky's heart lurched. He shuffled closer to the man on the impromptu stretcher, bending down over him so he could whisper without being overheard.

"So long as you draw breath, you're not dead weight but a member of my team, no matter how injured you are. And there's not a chance in hell I'm gonna leave you to die out here slow and alone."

"Maybe you don't have to." Stoller put on a brave face, but there was a tremulous tone to his voice. "You could leave me with my sidearm."

Bucky quickly shook his head. "So you can do the Nazis' job for them? No way, soldier. That's the pain talking."

"I'm not in pain anymore," Stoller told him. "Well, I am, but it's a sort of cold, numb pain. I feel like the pain isn't even a part of my body anymore."

"That's because we pumped you full of morphine." Bucky edged closer and lay a hand on Stoller's shoulder. "Your job for the rest of this mission is to hang in there. To keep going until we can get you back to camp. And that's an order, soldier. Y'hear me?"

"Yes, Sarge," Stoller sighed.

Bucky wasn't sure that he meant it. He made a mental note to tell the rest of the men on watch to keep their weapons well away from Stoller. The private's stubborn refusal to listen reminded him a little of Steve; there was no telling what the guy might do if he got his hands on a gun or a knife, and Bucky wasn't ready to lose another member of the 107th.


	50. Choices

We Were Soldiers

 _50\. Choices_

Bucky woke up bone-weary, his mind in a thick, numbing fog. Every morning, it was the same. Fear of losing Stoller in the night woke him over and over again, so that every hour or so he was waking just to check that the guy was still breathing, which was stupid, because the men took it in turns to watch Stoller, and any one of them would have woken the rest if the injured soldier took a turn for the worse. At this rate, it might take another five days to get back to camp. Another five days of barely any sleep. If he had to go even one more day, he thought he might go crazy. With his thoughts heavy and sluggish, he knew his reflexes had been dulled by exhaustion. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Yawning deeply, he pushed himself out of his sleeping roll and made his way over to the makeshift stretcher, his legs trudging numbly, as if they had lead weights attached to them. Stoller was awake, though by the look in his eyes, he was pretty out of it. The guy did nothing but sleep and get carried around, yet he looked worse than Bucky felt. Go figure. Beside him, Wells and Tex were talking quietly. Both men looked up when Bucky appeared, but he ignored them and crouched down beside Stoller for a minute.

"How're you doing, Private?" he asked.

"Mm'tired, Sarge," Stoller mumbled.

"I know the feeling, pal." He gave the guy a pat on the shoulder. "Hang in there. We'll have you back to camp in no time." Stoller nodded mutely, and Bucky sent a silent prayer of thanks that the young soldier didn't bring up the subject of leaving him behind again. He searched around for the first aid kit, and when he couldn't find it, he turned to Wells. "You got the kit?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because I gave Stoller more morphine about a half-hour ago."

"Alright. Hand it over, I need something from it."

Wells pulled the kit from his backpack and passed it on. "What're you looking for?" he asked, after Bucky had rooted around inside it for a moment.

"Benzedrine."

At last he found it, right at the bottom of the kit. He pulled out the box and counted the tablets in the blister pack. Twelve. It might be enough, just, if the trip took five days. He could limit himself to two per day. Regs said you weren't supposed to take more than three doses in a week, but these circumstances were pretty extenuating. He needed to be awake, to be able to focus. He couldn't operate with his mind in a tired fog. He'd only get men killed, like that.

When he felt eyes burning a hole in him, he glanced up and saw Wells and Tex watching him.

"What?" he demanded.

"Private, go wake the rest of the men, tell them to have breakfast." Wells waited until Tex was gone, then swivelled around in his cross-legged seated position to face Bucky. "You don't need that."

"I beg to differ. I feel like I'm wading through pea soup every damn minute of every day."

"That's because you haven't been sleeping properly."

"How do you know how I sleep?" Bucky scoffed. "As soon as your eyes are closed, you're out like a light. Not even a blitz could wake you."

"You forget, I'm a smart-ass. And right now, I say you don't need to be more awake; you need to be more asleep."

"That's a luxury we don't have. And I didn't ask for your opinion. I know what I'm doing."

Wells looked like he was about to argue back, but Bucky was saved from a lecture by Roberto's arrival. The guy strode up issuing a stream of unintelligible Italian, gesturing to himself, then to Stoller, then to the forest in general, appearing agitated and making Bucky even more exhausted just looking at him.

"Wells?" he sighed.

Wells shrugged. "From his emphatic gesticulating, I deduce he's singing something to the tune of, _'This is taking too long, we're all in danger, the Germans may find us at any minute, we should leave this injured guy behind and get back to base as quickly as possible with my valuable information.'_ Don't worry, Stoller, we're not leaving you behind," Wells added for the barely-conscious private.

The blister pack in Bucky's hands was shaking. Took him a moment to realise it was _his hands_ which were shaking. Goddamn tiredness. Why couldn't it go bother someone else?

"Tell him to get lost," he instructed.

With a deep sigh, Wells said, "Si, si signore, go eat breakfast." He pulled out his phrasebook. "Go… _andare_ … eat… _mangiare_ … breakfast… _colazione_. _Andare mangiare colazione._ Of course, those are just words, and without a proper sentence structure, for all I know I just said 'your mom looks like a donkey.'"

"Why can't there be some goddamn language that everyone speaks?" Bucky growled. Stupid Italians and their stupid language.

"Oh, there is. I just dunno if I'm officially approved to use it."

Bucky stared for a moment at his friend. "For godssake, Wells, if you know something, don't keep it to yourself!"

"Alright." Wells pulled his sidearm from his holster, cocked it, and pointed it at Roberto. Then he made a shoo'ing motion, and gestured to rest of the team, who were clustered not far away wisely pretending they didn't see the crazy Italian gesticulating or their sergeants arguing about the use of stimulants. " _Andare. Andare_ ," Wells said, pointing again. "No, don't wave your arms at me and rant, go away. _Andare_. Ah, fuckit." He pointed his gun into the air and fired it once, a loud report tearing through the peace of the morning and making everyone except Private Stoller jump. The fog in Bucky's mind quickly began to clear as he contemplated tackling his clearly insane friend before he could turn that gun back to Roberto.

Tackling proved unnecessary. Roberto seemed to get the message regardless of what Wells had been saying about his mom. He scurried back to the men, who'd suddenly become a lot more interested in examining their boots. Smart men.

"Oh look, seems we _do_ speak the same language after all," said Wells, holstering his pistol. "Gusty, keep an eye on Stoller. Biggs, do the same for our linguistically challenged friend. Sergeant Barnes, would you join me by the river for a moment?"

There was little Bucky could do except let his friend lead him away from the campsite, down to the river bank. He half expected Wells to pick up the argument about the amphetamines again, so he was pleasantly surprised when that didn't happen. The pleasant surprise lasted only a brief moment, however.

"Y'know," Wells said, "the guy's technically right. This is taking too long. The delay is unacceptable."

He could barely believe what he was hearing. "Surely you're not seriously thinking of leaving Stoller behind?"

"Of course not. Give me two men, a couple of extra canteens, and half your rations. You can take the rest of the team and the guy we're babysitting, and be back at camp in a couple of days if you set a fast pace. It might take us longer to get there, but I'll make sure Stoller makes it back."

"That's a stupid idea." He didn't even bother thinking about it. There was nothing to think about. "I'm not leaving anybody behind."

"Barnes, don't be an idiot. The mission here is to get that guy back to base. You have to complete the mission."

"And I will," he said. Why was Wells even suggesting this? It was suicide. " _We_ will. We'll all complete it together."

"More likely this delay will get us all killed." Wells took a step closer, his face a deepening scowl. "What happens if we're ambushed again? What if we lose someone else? Eventually, we're gonna run out of able bodies to carry the injured. The smartest thing is to split up now, whilst most of the team are somewhat fresh and uninjured."

"I never claimed to be a smart man. If it's such a smart idea, why don't _you_ take the team and get the informant back, and _I_ _'ll_ stay with Stoller? After all, you're the one who's supposed to speak Italian."

"Because I saw how you looked when Stoller got hit. You're better at motivating people to accomplish the mission, and I'm better at cleaning up the mess when things go sideways. That's why our missions are always successful. And now, for _this_ mission to be successful, the men need you to get them safely back to base."

Bucky clenched his jaw so hard that it ached. Wells was wrong. Splitting the team was a terrible idea. A stupid idea. But Wells had been acting pissed off since early in the mission. Clearly this stupid idea was just a symptom of whatever was bothering him.

"Fine," Wells said, when their stare-off ended in a stalemate. There was that uncompromising look in his eyes again. "This is what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna go back there and order Gusty to take the rest of the men and get Roberto back to base camp. You can either go with them, and help keep them alive, or you can stand here arguing with me until we both die of old age."

"Gusty won't listen to you. And the men won't leave Stoller."

"Yes, they will, because they know how important this mission is. The only reason you're being so goddamn stubborn is because you're exhausted. You're so exhausted you think taking stimulants is a good idea. If I ask for two men to stay behind and help me bring Stoller back, the rest will go. Because unlike you, they're still capable of seeing sense."

"You're wrong."

"Prove it," Wells challenged.

"Fine. And when you're proven wrong, you have to accept that we're all sticking together." Soon, Wells would be eating his words.

"That's fine. And when I'm proven right, _you_ have to accept that my plan is the best way, and you have to see it through."

"Fine. Let's go see what everyone says about your stupid idea."

They joined the rest of the team, and when Bucky called for everyone's attention, they gave it him immediately. They looked tense. Twitchy. It was all Wells' fault. He shouldn't'a fired his gun like that.

"We have two problems," he began. Clouds of that foggy tiredness tried to roll across his aching mind, and he pushed back at them, keeping them at bay through sheer force of will. Now, the lead weights on his legs felt like they'd been transferred to his eyelids. "First, the mission is taking longer than expected. We only have a couple of days' worth of rations left. Second, the longer we spend out here, the more chance of us coming across more Nazis."

"You should leave me behind," Stoller called out feebly. Bucky ignored him.

"Now, Wells has come up with a plan to split the team into two groups. One group would come with me, and we'd set a fast pace to escort our Italian informant back to base camp. The second group would stay with Wells, and help get Stoller back at a more manageable pace. It will be risky, so I'm not gonna order anyone to stay behind. If we don't get two volunteers to stay with Wells and help Stoller, then we'll all stick together, and we'll go back to camp the same way we started out; as one team."

He watched their faces as his words sank in. Saw their eyes assessing the situation from all angles, calculating their chances. They knew that Wells' ideas were always completely mad, and he knew his _one team_ speech had appealed to their spirit of military camaraderie. Wells was gonna sulk for the entire trip back, but it would be worth it, to keep the men together.

"So," he said, after they'd had the moment they needed. "Are there any volunteers to stay behind and help Wells?"

Bucky's heart dropped into his stomach when every hand was raised. They weren't even tentatively raised. It didn't start with one man, then slowly spread to the others. They didn't have to glare or guilt each other into it. Their hands went from down to up in a heartbeat.

"But…"

"You said it yourself, Sarge," Gusty spoke up. "We can go forty-eight hours without food, and on minimal sleep, but we don't have enough rations left for every man if it takes another four or five days to get back. It's just math."

"Fine." He turned his head slightly to address Wells, but didn't look at his friend's face. Didn't wanna see the gloating expression in his eyes. "Who do you want?"

"Biggs and Pearson," Wells said. "The rest of you, leave us with as much of your rations as you think you can spare."

Now that the decision was made, the men didn't hang about. They had a quick breakfast, sorted through their ration kits and packed up the camp in just under twenty minutes. Stoller tried a couple more times to convince the team to leave him behind, but nobody paid him any attention, and he eventually gave up. Bucky tried to drag his feet. To pack slow and delay the moment he had to take the majority of the team and leave their friends behind. There was no guarantees he'd see any of them again, once they parted ways.

Eventually, he was ready to go. He told Gusty to take the men on ahead, and loitered behind as the group set off. Pearson was doing his best to make Stoller comfortable for the journey, while Biggs and Wells packed the extra food into their haversacks and checked over their weapons. Wells pulled something out of his bag, and a rueful smile graced his mouth.

"You should take this," he said, holding the Italian phrasebook out to Bucky. "Might come in handy."

"Alright. And you should take this," he replied, handing over a couple of extra M1 ammo clips from his bandolier. "But I'm keeping the Benzedrine."

Wells pursed his lips, but didn't object. Maybe he didn't wanna push his luck, now that he'd had one victory. "When I get back, I'm gonna get Stark to invent me something better than Benzedrine."

"Just make sure you _do_ get back," Bucky told him. "We've got a war to win."

"Don't worry, Barnes." Wells ejected the half-spent ammo clip from his M1 and replaced it with a full one. The bolt slid back into place with a grim, mechanical note of finality. "I've miles to go before I sleep."

Bucky gave a humourless snort, but he couldn't delay any longer. His team were almost out of view, and he had a lot of ground to cover. Time itself seemed against him. Once, he'd had so much of it that he hadn't known what to do with it. He'd filled his time with poker and books and pranks. Now that he needed more of it, it ran ahead of him, always just out of reach.

He followed after the rest of his team, and didn't look back until he was far enough away that the four men at the campsite were nothing but indistinct blurs.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky had a new best friend, and its name was Benzedrine. An hour after taking his first dose, he felt as if he'd had a good night's sleep. Everything was better with Benzedrine's warm arms wrapped around his mind. The shadows beneath the trees were less ominous. The small sounds of the forest were less threatening. He felt like he'd _sense_ any Nazis approaching long before they could surprise the group. Nazis were evil, and now, thanks to Benzedrine, Bucky could sense evil.

Seven hours after his first dose, he lost the ability to sense evil and his mind sank back into the thick pea-soup fog of tiredness. So, he took another dose, and regained his amazing new ability and his immunity to being tired.

He wanted to talk. _Needed_ to talk. He had too many thoughts to contain in his head, and they had to come out, but he couldn't talk to the rest of the team because they were focused on their surroundings. The rest of the team didn't have Bucky's newfound ability to sense evil approaching, so they had to concentrate and remain alert. They were doing a good job of it, too; even Mex wasn't chattering, for once.

He couldn't talk to the men, so he talked to Steve. Steve wasn't there, of course, because here was Italy, and Steve was back in New York. But he could _imagine_ Steve walking right beside him… maybe panting and wheezing a little because the altitude was a little higher than normal, and the oxygen not quite as heavy as it was in New York.

 _"But at least the air's clean!"_ he said mentally to Steve. _"Just smell it, pal! No dust kicked up from the streets, no fumes from cars. It's like drinking pure, liquid air, except it's a gas, and I'm breathing it. I wish you could be here breathing it, too._

 _"It's a real shame you never got accepted. Don't get me wrong, I think it would be crazy for you to be out here, but I sure do miss you at times. If only you weren't so stubborn! There are jobs you could'a done out here. You could'a been a mechanic, or a cook—you make a mean plate of scrambled eggs—or you could'a gone to college and studied medicine. Or you could'a been a spy, maybe, because who would suspect Steve Rogers of being a spy? But no. You wanted to be an infantryman, just like your dad, and nothing else would do._

 _"Well, I can tell you right now, pal, it's overrated. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to be doing my bit, but I get the feeling I should'a joined the Airforce. Maybe learned how to become a pilot. Remember when we first heard about Pearl Harbor? We went down to the nearest enlistment line the very next day. We were gonna enlist together, then apply for officer training school. But you didn't pass the physical, and when I found out about the huge backlog of men applying for officer training, I changed my mind. Didn't wanna wait. Thought I'd get to the front lines faster as an enlisted man._

 _"Mom thought I was crazy. Said my time at NYU ought to count for something. I told her the officer training school wasn't exactly rushing to snap up English Majors. Maybe I was just being impatient. Maybe I should'a listened. Not that it matters. I am where I am. Thinking about being someplace else ain't gonna change a thing."_

 _"_ Sarge, do you think we oughta send a couple of men to scout ahead?" asked Gusty.

It was then Bucky realised they'd reached the edge of the forest. All that lay ahead of them was meadow. Meadow and mountain, not unlike the place where Stoller had been shot. Wait… they hadn't come full circle, had they?! He shook his head. That really _was_ crazy. Gusty had his map and compass out, and Gusty wasn't an idiot; he could travel in a straight line with the best of them.

"No, it's okay," he told the corporal. "I can sense evil."

Gusty gave him a funny look, then told Tex and Marsh to go scout ahead.

The pair returned some twenty minutes later to report that the fields ahead seemed Nazi-free. Bucky didn't bother with an _I told you so_ , because nobody liked a gloater. His finely-honed evil-senses would keep the team safe, but if Gusty needed to send scouts, then Gusty could send as many scouts as he felt the need to send.

 _"He's alright, really,"_ Bucky told Steve in his head. _"Reminds me of you, sometimes. He gets a bit nervous around dames, though he's getting better now that he has Audrey. Come to think of it, Tex reminds me of you a little, too. He's laid back, easy-going. And Wells reminds me of you, as well. Too damn smart for his own good, just like you. His mouth gets him into trouble so often that I think he could give you a run for your money._

 _"Maybe I see pieces of you in everybody around me because you're not here yourself. I wonder if I'm a piece of you, too. Wouldn't that be weird? Bucky Barnes – a piece of Steve Rogers! I guess I'd be your sense of justice. Or maybe your fighting spirit. Only… I haven't had much of my own fighting spirit, since getting over here. Used to be I enjoyed climbing into a ring. Now I'm in the biggest ring of all, and sometimes I hate it. I hate the things I have to do, the lives I have to take, the friends I have to lose._

 _"What if I lose Wells, and Biggs, and Pearson, and Stoller? What if they don't make it back? Gah, I'm such an idiot! If you were here, you wouldn't have let me leave those men behind. Why weren't you here earlier, when I needed backup? I should'a stayed. I should'a made Wells escort our Italian informant back to camp, and I should'a been the one to stay with Stoller. Now I might never see them again. Why didn't you tell me to argue harder against that stupid idea, Steve?"_

The next time the team stopped moving, it was dark. When had _that_ happened? It seemed to Bucky that the lights had just been switched out. But his ability to sense evil was still there, so that was good.

"I think this will make a good campsite," Gusty said. He'd halted the team in the lee of an overhanging bluff. Here they would be sheltered from prying eyes and elements alike.

"If I was the brass, I would'a made you a Captain by now," Bucky told him wisely. "And if I was a General, I'd marry you."

"I, umm, what?"

He gave a quiet snort. "I mean, I'd perform your marriage vows. I think Generals are allowed to do that."

"Err, right, Sarge. Why don't you… umm… take a seat and focus on… err… sensing evil? We need to know if any Nazis are close enough to get the jump on us."

"You're a smart man, Gusty."

Bucky sat down on the dry, grassy ground and let his mind unfurl like the leaf of a fern opening up to the rays of the sun. He couldn't sense any evil around him, which meant they were safe for now. And while he was busy mentally searching for Nazis, the rest of the team began to turn the area into a proper campsite. They brought out cooking stoves, and shared a single tin of beans between them. Bucky eschewed food, because he thought it would interfere with his evil-sense.

"I see more clearly without it," he told Gusty, when the corporal tried to force beans on him.

Gusty gave him a worried look, then went to feed Roberto.

Ah yes, Roberto! Bucky had almost forgotten about him. From his pocket, he pulled out the Italian phrasebook and opened it to page one. Wells had failed at learning Italian, but how hard could it be?

The letters swam around the page. They darted here and there like minnows in a stream. Or, rather, like he imagined minnows in a stream would dart. He'd never seen minnows, but he'd read about them in a book. The book said they darted, just like the letters on the page. When one of the words began attacking his thumb, he dropped the book with a yelp.

"Holy crap! No wonder Wells couldn't make heads nor tails of this thing!" he said. The rest of the team looked on, thoroughly perplexed. "The words are alive, and they're vicious little bastards!" He looked up, into Gusty's worried face. "Throw it on the fire, quickly, before they escape!"

"Err, Sarge." The corporal looked hesitant. And concerned. Very concerned. Even more concerned than he'd been about Stoller, and he'd been pretty damn concerned at the time. "Could I, erm, take a look at that packet of Benzedrine?"

"I didn't overdose," Bucky assured him. "The medic back at boot camp said no more than three days, and it's been only one."

"I know, but I just want to make sure they haven't passed their expiration date."

Gusty seemed genuinely concerned, so he handed the packet over. The corporal counted the tablets out, and then spoke to the rest of the squad like Bucky wasn't even there.

"He's only had two. He shouldn't be like this."

"I'm fine," Bucky assured the men. "It's not me that's the problem, it's that damn book." He gave the book a good glaring. "If Wells was here, he'd tell you."

"Ah'm no doctor," said Tex, and the mental image of Private Robertson wearing a doctor's coat made Bucky snigger quietly, "but only a month ago, he was drugged by a Nazi spy with something even Mr. Stark doesn't fully understand. Maybe whatever it was has lingered in his system and had a whatchamacallit… an adverse reaction to the Benzedrine."

"I'm fine," Bucky assured them. "Fit as a fiddle. Fit as the fiddler, in fact." They ignored him, and he understood what it meant to be Stoller.

"Sarge, I think you should have something to eat and then have a good, long nap," Gusty said. He handed over a tray full of beans and his canteen.

"But then who will sense evil approaching?"

"We'll do it the old fashioned way, by keeping watch."

"Well… alright," Bucky relented. Gusty was a smart guy. Practically a captain, except that he was still a corporal. "But you gotta wake me for my turn at watch."

"Of course."

So, Bucky ate the beans, and they were cold. And he drank the water, and it was warm. It was as if somebody had inverted the way things ought to be. Water oughta be cold, and beans oughta be warm. But that was Europe for you; they had everything backwards. Like beer that was flat, and books which attacked you.

After his drink and his dinner, Gusty helped him with his bedroll, and he settled down beneath his blanket. He wished for a pillow, but fate was cruel and did not provide him with one. When his eyes finally closed, he sank into a deep sleep, one filled with dreams of flying over New York, and watching Steve—dressed in the American flag—getting punched by some guy draped in that awful monstrosity of a thing from the HYDRA bunkers. He wanted to swoop down and help, but somewhere further away he heard Wells shouting out that he was being attacked by books, so he left Steve to his fight and soared over the Alps in search of his absent squadmates.


	51. Losses

We Were Soldiers

 _51\. Losses_

Bucky opened his eyes, and reality punched him in the gut. He pushed himself up, out of his bedroll, and his head pounded angrily. Around him, the rest of the team were asleep, except for Baker, who was on watch. A dense white fog clung to the Alps, and where it touched his skin it chilled him to the bone. His mouth was dry, and despite having barely eaten in twenty-four hours, he felt sick. Limbs which yesterday morning had felt heavy as lead, now felt heavy as… something heavier than lead.

"What time is it?" he groaned.

"Nearly six," Baker replied.

Their voices woke Gusty, who yawned and sat up beneath his blanket. He looked bright-eyed and fresh, and Bucky momentarily hated him.

"How are you feeling, Sarge?"

"Like my head got pounded into the floor of a boxing ring, and then somebody attached lead weights to my limbs." He held out his hand. "Gimme the Benzedrine."

Gusty hesitated in a rather _nervous_ way. "Sorry Sarge, but I can't."

"Sure you can." Bucky fought down his irritation. "Just take them out of your pocket and hand them over."

"I don't have them anymore."

"Who does?"

"Nobody. We… err… we dumped them in a stream not far from camp."

He felt his right hand clench into a fist. "Why?! I _need_ those to keep my head clear!"

"They weren't keeping your head clear, Sarge. You were completely out of it. I know the doctors says Benzedrine is safe for short-term use, but you had a really, really bad reaction to them." When Bucky glared daggers at him, he added, "You thought you could sense evil!"

"Well, it made perfect sense at the time." He sank back down onto his bed roll. How was he gonna cope now? He'd die. Literally, die.

"Sarge, I've been doing some calculations from my map, and I think if we can march for fifteen hours, we'll be back at camp just after nightfall."

"You go on without me," he said. "I'll just lie here and wait for that stream to evaporate, and the water to move up into the atmosphere, and the rising elevation to produce clouds which will precipitate the Benzedrine back down on me."

"You're under a rock face, Sarge. The rain's not gonna catch you."

 _Damn._

That was okay. They had more Benzedrine back at the camp.

"Fifteen hours of marching?" Bucky mused. "Easy. Wake everyone. We'll set off right away."

Gusty roused the team and they broke camp without eating breakfast. Roberto chattered something in Italian, but Bucky didn't know what he was saying because he didn't have the book anymore. He guessed one of the men had taken it, but if that was true, none of them were owning up to it.

As they marched, Bucky's head began to clear. His gut stopped churning. His limbs grew lighter, less lead-like. He could recall with perfect clarity every thought and feeling he'd experienced the day before, and he knew that everything he had experienced was real. It wasn't like the time he'd been drugged by Nurse Green and thought he could find his way back to Steve in France. It wasn't the paranoia that told him everybody around him was a Nazi spy. It was something else. Something that, from the outside, looked completely and utterly nuts. But from the inside, it was perfectly sane. Even now, clearheaded again, he knew he hadn't been crazy. Just… seeing things in a different way.

For lunch they had a thirty minute break, a drink of water, and another shared can of beans. Roberto grumbled in Italian for the whole thirty minutes, and only stopped grumbling when Gusty pulled out his Colt and scowled at the guy. It seemed Roberto spoke pistol better than he spoke English.

As they continued their march, Bucky's focus wavered. Last night's dreams, byproduct of a chemically affected mind, kept coming back to him no matter how hard he tried to push them away. Really, it was foolish. Steve was back home, probably still getting into his own fair share of fights, but he had nothing to do with the war, and even less to do with the malevolent HYDRA flag that had been displayed in the bunkers they'd captured.

And Wells being attacked by books? Madness, no matter how sane it had seemed at the time. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that his friends were in danger. And not only were they in danger, they were out of his reach. Whatever they might be going through, he couldn't help them. And it was that which hurt him most of all.

Gusty's calculations held true. After fifteen hours of solid, leg-aching, back-breaking marching, they reached the SSR's camp. Even though he'd been clearheaded for several hours, he felt like it had been years since he'd last been here. Decades, even.

He dismissed the team to their regiment's tent, and on second thought, took Gusty with him to the command tent. For the better part of a day, Bucky's mind had been in an altered state. He needed somebody who'd been clear-headed the whole time to stand in his corner. He gestured Roberto to follow him, and the three of them set off for the centre of the camp.

Phillips was in the command tent, dictating a condolence letter to one of his administration staff. The malaria, it seemed, had claimed its first victim. Bucky didn't catch the name of the dead soldier, and as much as he wanted to ask, he first needed to report his mission's outcome to the colonel.

As soon as the colonel finished his dictation, his eyes jumped up to Bucky's face, silently inviting him into the command tent. At the same time, he dismissed the man at the typewriter.

"Sergeant, you're late. Report," he instructed, after Bucky's rushed salute.

"Sir, we've brought back the Italian Resistance member, as instructed. His name's Roberto," Bucky told him, with a gesture for the Italian. "But one of my men was injured, and I left three others behind to help him. I'd like permission to return to the field, to bring them home."

"First things first, Sergeant," Phillips said. His grey eyes danced over Roberto, taking in the man's unwashed appearance. "Start from the beginning and give me a full report."

Bucky wrestled his own impatience into submission. He gave a swift report of the journey to San Vinadio. Spent longer relaying the events that had transpired in the village, including how they'd ended up shooting two Nazis and trashed their cars so they couldn't be followed. Phillips was quiet, until that point.

"That was good thinking," the colonel said. "What gave you the idea to put rice in their radiators?"

"Um, Private Hawkins, sir. Apparently, his older brother was something of a teenage menace. Rice in the radiators was his favourite way of getting back at teachers who gave him detention."

"Well, I hope he's not still making a habit of it."

"No sir," Bucky assured him. "He's dead. Part of a tank crew that took a hit somewhere in Africa right before we shipped out for Europe."

"Hmph. What happened after you made your escape from San Vinadio?"

"I'm not exactly sure. It's possible we were unlucky and crossed paths with a German patrol… but they were well kitted out, and they were on us so fast that they'd either been given warning we were in the area, or they'd spotted our approach and set up an ambush."

"There's no heavy Nazi presence in the Alps," Phillips mused as his eyes strayed to a map laid out on the table. "However, they may have stationed small garrisons at various key positions. With the right radio equipment, the ones you left cooking rice in San Vinadio may have warned the others in the area to be on alert."

"Private Stoller was hit," Bucky continued. Memories of that day came flooding back, and he swallowed the bile that was trying to rise in his throat. "We did our best, but his leg was too badly damaged. We had to put a tourniquet on him, sir. He'd lost a lot of blood, and we had to carry him. When we realised we'd run out of rations before getting back, we split the teams. I brought my team back fast we we could go. Sergeant Wells stayed behind with Privates Biggs and Pearson. They're a couple of days behind us, at most. If you give me a jeep I can retrace my route, find them, and bring them back. Sir."

Phillips gave a quiet grunt as he ran his eyes over Bucky and Gusty, and their Italian prize. "Sergeant, you look like you just got home from a three-day drinking session. You and your men have done good work, and you've worked hard. You've earned some rest. I'll send the 69th for Sergeant Wells' team."

Bucky stepped forward, his mouth already open in objection. "Sir, I'd like to go along. They're my men. I left them. They're my responsibility."

The colonel lifted his hands to the sky—or at least, the roof of the khaki tent. "Lord save me from stubborn sergeants who think it's their responsibility to run off after each other every time one of them's out of sight for five damn minutes. Fine, Sergeant, you can go. But only to guide the 69th on the right path. You're not in charge. Do you understand?"

"Yessir."

"Sarge," Gusty spoke up. His voice was full of reproach. Bucky didn't have to be a mind reader to know what was coming.

"I'm fine, Gusty."

Too late. Colonel Phillips had picked up on the undercurrents. "What's this, Corporal?"

Gusty cringed a little. "Sergeant Barnes had a rather severe adverse reaction to Benzedrine, sir. I think he needs to be checked over by Dr. Peacock, and maybe Mr. Stark."

"It wasn't severe," Bucky scowled. He could feel his chances of being allowed on the rescue mission slipping from his grasp.

"You thought the words in a book were alive and attacking you, Sarge."

Bucky turned his gaze back to Colonel Phillips, and tried to put on his best 'sane' look. "I'm not crazy."

"Hospital. Now. Corporal Ferguson, you'll accompany the 69th."

"But sir—"

"Sergeant Barnes, do I have to threaten to have you _dragged_ to the hospital by MPs? _Again_?"

 _Yes sir, you do_ , his defiant inner-Steve wanted to say. But this wasn't the time for an attitude, and defiance would not help Wells and the others.

"No, sir," he said with a sigh. "I'll go now."

"Good. Corporal Ferguson, find Sergeant Dugan and advise him to prep a team and report to me on the double."

Outside the tent, Gusty was immediately contrite.

"I'm sorry, Sarge, but I really do think you need a medical checkup."

"Just bring our friends home, Gusty," Bucky told him, with a clap on his shoulder. Gusty nodded, then dashed away to find Dugan. Bucky watched him go, then reported to the medical tent. It was the fastest way to prove he wasn't crazy, and that he was fit for duty. Hopefully he could be declared sane before the search team left. Hopefully Gusty would save him a spot in a jeep.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

It took Doctor Peacock several hours to prove Bucky wasn't crazy, by which point the search team was long gone. Bucky begged and pleaded with Peacock for him to call in Stark to help with the analysis of his blood pressure, and heart rate, and the new blood sample he'd provided, but that merely set the doctor off on a rant about how he was _perfectly_ capable of diagnosing his patient himself, and how he'd gotten his PhD whilst Stark had been tinkering with his first Erector Set, and did Stark even _have_ a PhD? He thought not.

By the time Bucky was declared sane, it was pitch black outside and he was starving. All he wanted to do was pace and worry. Instead, he went to the mess and let the kitchen staff cook up his first proper meal in days. After dinner, he went back to the regiment's tent and fielded questions from the rest of the 107th about what had happened on the mission. They'd heard it all from Mex already, but they wanted it from him. For some reason, Bucky telling them the same things Mex had told them made it all real.

As he described how Stoller had been shot, how they'd put a tourniquet on him, how they'd eventually come the decision to split the team, he waited for somebody to speak up and tell him he'd done that wrong thing. That he'd made a terrible mistake. Nobody did. They nodded in understanding, sympathy and regret in their eyes. None of them accused him of making the situation worse, or letting the team down. They all understood. Understanding wasn't something Bucky needed. He needed somebody to tell him he'd made the wrong call.

He knew, then, that he couldn't let the brass promote him to lieutenant. He struggled to make the tough calls. Second-guessed himself all the time. Worried constantly over every little thing that could go wrong. The men needed somebody better that that. They needed somebody they could trust. Somebody who wouldn't spend his time worrying and obsessing and doubting himself. It would have to be Wells. He was better at making hard choices than Bucky. He was a better sergeant. He'd proven that time and time again.

Sleep finally found Bucky, stealing over him slowly as he lay in his bed worrying about the men he'd left behind, obsessing over what might be going wrong, doubting himself for the thousandth time.

The next morning, en route to the mess tent with a group from the 107th, Bucky spied a familiar figure cutting their way through the camp, preceded by an air that was perpetually frosty.

"Agent Carter!" He jogged up to her and had to resist the urge to salute when she glared at him.

"Sergeant Barnes, if this is about the search team, then I haven't heard any more than you."

"It isn't," he said. Even asleep, his mind had been alert for the sound of returning jeep engines. "I wanted to know if you got what you needed outta Roberto. That his intel was sound."

"Colonel Phillips is debriefing him," she said. "What and when he chooses to share the results of that debriefing is down to him."

"But the guy doesn't speak any English."

She pursed her lips before answering. "We have someone who can translate."

Bucky was literally gobsmacked. "If you had someone who can translate Italian, why didn't you sent _them_ to go collect Roberto? One of my men got shot, and more could be injured, and you're telling me that someone else could'a done the job?"

"I never said or even implied that, Sergeant," she countered. "We have someone who can translate, yes, but that person was required _here_. Why do you think you and your team were sent? It was a dangerous mission."

"I get it. We're expendable."

"You're _competent_ , Sergeant Barnes. Even Howard has said as much, and he's not a man easily impressed." She glanced around, as if afraid of being overheard. "Your team went into hostile territory, pulled out a member of the Italian Resistance, put paid to any pursuit, were later ambushed by Nazis and still managed to make it back and complete the mission. You weren't sent because you're expendable; you were sent because we knew you would succeed."

She left him to chew on that thought. Was it true? He'd always imagined the rest of the SSR thought of the 107th as something of a joke. It was true that they'd done more combat missions than anyone else in the company, but he'd thought that was because the brass didn't care about losing men from the 107th. Had he got it wrong? Maybe Agent Carter was right. After all, if Bucky had taken whoever was able to translate, and that person had been hurt like Stoller, or killed before making it back, there would have been nobody left to translate whatever Roberto was saying.

The day dragged on and on. Bucky ate breakfast with the rest of the regiment, washed his combat uniform, polished his boots, serviced his rifle and sidearm, then settled on his bed to write letters home. There wasn't much new he could tell his family, but he just wanted to write. He never told them in his letters about how difficult it was at times, never spoke of the friends he'd lost nor the lives he'd taken. They didn't need to hear about that. Instead, he told them of the friends he'd made, the battles he'd won, and the things he missed from home.

It was late afternoon, and he was halfway through his letter to Steve, when he heard the familiar throbbing purr of a pair of jeep engines pass by on their way to the motor pool. Bucky's pulse raced as he pushed himself up from his bed, shoved the cap on his pen and the stopper on his ink bottle. He jogged toward the motor pool and saw two men jump down from the drivers' seats of the vehicles. One was Dugan, and his light eyebrows lowered into a frown when he spotted Bucky.

"Where are my men?" he demanded without preamble.

"We dropped most of them off at the hospital tent," Dugan said. "Wells went to the river, to wash up. You should go talk to him; I gotta report to the brass."

It felt like a brush-off, but he didn't get chance to question Dugan further, because the man nodded to his fellow driver then set off in the direction of the command tent, his broad shoulders squared.

Bucky took the shortest route he knew down to the river. It didn't make sense. Why wouldn't Wells accompany Stoller to the hospital tent? Unless… Bucky's blood ran cold. Was Stoller dead? Had he not made it back? Had Wells tried to loosen the tourniquet and accidentally killed him? No… no, Wells knew you couldn't take a tourniquet off once it had been on for over half an hour. He wasn't negligent. He wasn't stupid. He wouldn't have done that. Not by mistake…

When he spotted a figure standing in the river, the water up to his knees, he halted. Wells had taken his boots off, and left his blood-stained jacket on top of them on the silty bank. He dipped his hands down into the water and washed away some of the dried blood that had soaked both hands and arms up to his elbows. There was more blood now than there had been when Bucky left.

"Are you injured?" he asked, then mentally kicked himself. Of course Wells wasn't injured. If he was, he'd be in the hospital tent. The guy barely needed an excuse to visit the hospital.

Wells didn't turn around to face him, but he shook his head. "We dropped Stoller off at the hospital. The medic with the 69th said he'll probably live. They're taking his leg off as we speak."

Relief and nausea battled for domination of Bucky's gut. He'd known Stoller would lose his leg, but thinking about the surgery, and the doctors going through the bone and necrotic flesh, made him queasy.

"You did it," Bucky said. "You brought Stoller back, just like you said you would. I shouldn't've doubted you." There was no response. Wells just kept washing the blood from his skin. "Why aren't you happier?"

"We ran into more Nazis."

What little relief Bucky had felt about Stoller quickly fled. "Oh God. Who'd we lose?"

The answer came out flat, emotionless. "Pearson. Biggs and I were taking our turn at carrying Stoller; Pearson had point, and they got the jump on him. We barely had time to get our own weapons out. We got Stoller back, but we lost another man in the process. We couldn't even take the time to stop and give Pearson a proper burial. I got his tags."

"It isn't your fault, Wells. Pearson knew what he was volunteering for."

"Tell that to his family."

There was nothing Bucky could say to that. Instead, he asked, "How'd Stoller take it?"

"Badly. Blamed himself." Wells paused in mid-scoop. "I had to put a gun in his hand. After we lost Pearson, Biggs and I couldn't carry Stoller and keep an eye on our surroundings. I gave him his pistol back. Told him he had to be our eyes. That if he used that gun on himself, Pearson would'a died for nothing. That now he had a duty to live, to make Pearson's sacrifice mean something."

Bucky didn't bother telling Wells how risky that had been; he knew it already. Imagining that conversation, putting a gun in a man's hand and convincing him not to kill himself… it wasn't a pleasant thought, and Bucky was glad he hadn't been the one to do it. "Do you need anything?" he asked.

"A hot meal and a long sleep."

"I'll tell the kitchen staff to make something for you and the others."

"Thanks."

For a moment, he hung back. He could _feel_ the heavy cloud sitting over Wells' head, but he knew his friend wouldn't accept sympathy for the loss or praise for getting everyone else back. "It wasn't your fault," he said at last.

"I know," Wells replied. But Bucky didn't believe him.

He left Wells to his cleansing, and decided not to mention anything about what Carter had told him. Somehow, he doubted that knowledge would be any sort of comfort to him after losing Pearson.


	52. Beginnings

We Were Soldiers

 _52\. Beginnings_

The command tent was full of commissioned and non-commissioned officers. Howard Stark and Agent Carter were there. Doctor Peacock and the stern Nurse Madeley were there. Lieutenant Olliver was there. But there was no sign of Roberto. It was as if the colonels had used the last twenty-four hours to make him disappear.

"As some of you are already aware," Colonel Hawkswell started, "Sergeants Barnes and Wells recently undertook a mission to bring back intelligence vital to our role in this war. From our informant, we have learnt that Mussolini has been deposed and the Italian government has announced an armistice, which will shortly be signed by the new Italian leaders." Mumbles spread quietly around the men in the tent like the buzz of swarming bees.

"We had hoped," Colonel Phillips continued, "that with the loss of Italy, the Germans would retreat to the borders, but it seems they're determined to hang on and protect the ground they've gained here. They've withdrawn to several key locations aimed at slowing the Fifth Army's northward advance. With the bulk of our forces in the south, around Salerno and Naples, that means for the most part, we're behind enemy lines and on our own."

"It also means," said Hawkswell, "that we're uniquely placed to interrupt important Nazi operations. We don't have the manpower nor firepower to attack, take and defend any of the larger northern towns and cities, so we'll be carrying out a series of lightning strikes against enemy targets. Munitions factories, work camps, supply depots, trade routes… we'll strike fast, without warning, and disappear before the Nazis can even think about striking back.

"We'll travel east, skirting the southern range of the Italian Alps, using the mountain chain to help hide us from our enemies. The going won't be easy, but by using the mountains as refuge we can make sorties as we travel. Our eventual goal is Austria. If we can cut off the German supply chain, we can starve the Nazis currently fortified along several lines in the Apennines of much needed weapons and food provisions, and make it easier for our boys in the south to reach the north."

"Some of you may be wondering why we started off in France, instead of joining the bulk of the Fifth Army in Operation Husky," Phillips said. Bucky stood up a little straighter. So far, the colonel hadn't mentioned HYDRA to anybody other than Bucky and Wells. He could feel the breaths collectively held around him. "The SSR was formed to counter and eventually take down HYDRA, Hitler's deep science division run by a madman named Johann Schmidt. While in France, the 107th undertook several important ops to capture HYDRA communications bunkers. Thanks to the success of those missions, we now have access to HYDRA's entire comms chain in France. Information intercepted by our operatives is sent back to England and analysed by the SOE. It's only a matter of time before we get a lead on where Schmidt is undertaking his research, and when that lead comes through, we'll be sent to put him down. Until then, we'll be assisting the Allied forces in Italy with the capture of this country and expulsion of Nazi forces."

"Men," Colonel Hawkswell picked up. He stepped forward, his cool grey eyes somber. "This isn't going to be like France. It won't be a walk in the park." Jeez, he thought _France_ was a walk in the park?! "We won't have the element of surprise for very long. Sooner or later, the Nazis are going to know we're here, and when they do, they're going to send a force to stop us. Travelling along the southern edge of the Alps should help if we need to mount a defence, but Nazis aren't the only enemy we have to contend with. Not all Italian companies have surrendered; some remain loyal to the fascists, and are aiding their Nazi allies. Others are waiting for the armistice to be signed before officially lowering arms against us. As well, the season is changing. Sooner or later, we're going to see snow, and probably a lot of it. We aren't kitted out for a winter campaign, so it's imperative we reach the Austrian border as swiftly as possible. We'll be supplied by air drops, but we'll start seeing more _Luftwaffe_ patrols as we travel closer to the Austrian-Italian border, which is another reason we'll be using the Alps as a base of operations. They'll find it harder to target us from above once we're hidden in the mountains."

"You'll each be assigned missions as we travel," said Phillips. "We expect resistance to grow heavier as we penetrate further into Italy. If you have any questions, now would be the time to ask them."

In the silence that followed, Bucky heard a pin drop. Stark quickly swooped down to pick it up.

"Sorry," the scientist said, holding up the ruby-topped item for everyone to see. "My lucky lapel pin. Never leave home without it."

"Alright, men," said Hawkswell, when nobody asked questions. "Get back to your regiments and start packing up; we leave tonight, and I want to spend Thanksgiving in Venice." A grimace twisted his lips. "The last time I saw the Fifth Army's commander, Lieutenant General Clark, he swore that his troops would be the first to enter Rome. Therefore, if we manage to reach Rome before the Fifth Army, I'll personally ensure that every officer present receives a one hundred dollar bonus to his pay, with a smaller bonus for all the enlisted men in the company."

 _That_ got the bees mumbling again.

"Dismissed," Hawkswell said. The mumbling stopped long enough for everyone to salute and exit the command tent.

"I guess this is it," Bucky said to Wells, who was walking beside him in silence. "This is where the war really starts for us."

Wells merely shook his head. "It started the moment we signed our names on that dotted line." His voice was so heavy with sadness and regret that Bucky stopped, forcing Wells to turn and face him.

"Do you wish you hadn't done it? That you never signed up?"

"That's… a difficult question to answer. Ask me again, after the war's over."

"What if the war doesn't end in our lifetime?" It was a horrible thought, that the war would go on until he was old and grey, but what if it was like this forever? One side gaining, the other losing, before their roles were reversed and losses became gains? What if they were on an eternal teeter-totter, unable to get themselves off the ride?

"It will end," Wells assured him. "This war is killing men faster than they're being born. Eventually, one side will run out of soldiers. A war won by attrition is still a win."

Bucky nodded. He had a point. If lots of men were away from home fighting, that meant babies weren't being made. No babies meant no future soldiers. No soldiers sounded like a good thing. No war sounded even better.

"C'mon," he said, clapping his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Let's go tell the men to start packing up for a long campaign, then we can start planning."

Wells offered him a puzzled frown. "Planning what?"

Bucky grinned. "Thanksgiving in Venice, of course."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Not for the first time since being unceremoniously shipped off to Europe, Howard Stark wished for earplugs. Sequestered in his tent, he was aurally assaulted by the laughs and calls and orders shouted by the soldiers in the camp. He'd taken to working at night, because that was the only time he could get real peace, but working by lamplight was putting strain on his eyes. Too much more of this and he'd need glasses.

The flap of his tent opened, a splash of daylight flooding into the room heralding Colonel Phillips flanked by Agent Carter. Howard squinted in a poor attempt to protect what was left of his precious vision.

"Have you made any progress on Project Lazarus, Stark?" Phillips asked without even so much as a _'Hello, how are you doing today?'_

Howard straightened up from his usual slouched-over-workbench position. The colonel always glared at him when he slouched. "Colonel, if I'd made progress, I wouldn't be here. I'd be on a beach in Tahiti, sipping mojitos and being pampered by several beautiful, tanned, scantily dressed women, and this war would be being fought by big, stupid men with more bravery than common sense."

"Then why did you ask to see me?"

"Because of this." Howard pulled out one of the boxes beneath his workbench and took from it a tempered glass vial. "It's my truth serum."

"I can see that. Would you care to elaborate?"

Howard fought back the sigh of irritation which so desperately tried to escape his lips. He reminded himself that, sometimes, horses needed to be led to water before they could drink. Not everybody possessed an IQ comparable to his own.

"I would like to destroy it, Colonel, along with all my notes about its creation."

Colonel Phillips stared at him as if he was crazy, "In God's name, why?"

"Because we're about to enter the war for real, and I don't want to risk it falling into enemy hands. Can you imagine the chaos and catastrophe that would befall us if the Nazis got their hands on my truth serum? They could use it to interrogate captured soldiers and spies. Men could be forced to divulge secrets. Battle plans. Names of campaigns, and informants, and—"

"Alright, I get the picture," Phillips grumbled. He was finally drinking the water. "You really need to destroy all record of it?"

"Yeah. But don't worry." He tapped his temple with his fingers. "I've got the original formula stored up here. I can make more in the future… just, some place far, far away from enemy lines."

Phillips pursed his lips briefly as he considered the request. "Fine. Destroy everything you need to. Is there anything else you feel is too dangerous to risk falling into enemy hands?"

"Just about everything I invent is dangerous in the wrong hands," Howard smiled happily. "But most of my inventions are only dangerous on a small scale. Nothing that could lose us the war like men being forced to flap their lips."

"What about this?" Agent Carter asked. She'd wandered away to inspect his notes about Project Lazarus, and was holding some of the papers up in her hand for him to see.

"What about it?"

"Isn't it dangerous for this to fall into enemy hands, too?" she insisted.

"Not right now. It's incomplete. I sent a third of the chemical sequence to Kaufmann, another third to a trusted colleague of mine in Sweden, and the third I have here probably isn't any more than Schmidt already has from his own blood samples."

"Are you any closer to identifying the key components of the serum?" Phillips asked. Always with the serum!

"No," Howard admitted. Of course, it probably didn't help that he barely spent any time on the damn thing. The men who held the SSR's purse-strings seemed to believe that Erskine's serum was the best way to win the war, but Howard was far from convinced. Sure, it had worked. It had worked spectacularly. But Erskine had gone on and on and on and on about how he needed the _right_ candidate for Project Rebirth. Had spent many long, boring hours warning Howard how everything would go horribly pear-shaped if the _right serum_ was given to the _wrong candidate_. Even if he could manufacture the serum tomorrow, it wasn't as if they had another Steve Rogers just lying around waiting to be transformed into a bastion of truth and justice and scantily clad show-girls.

Some guys got all the luck. Still, Howard had money. Lots and lots of money. Show-girls liked money just as much as they liked big muscles and floppy hair.

"Redouble your efforts," Phillips instructed him. "We need Project Lazarus to be a success."

The colonel left, and Carter trotted out on his heels like an obedient dog.

Alone again, Howard let himself slouch over his workbench. Redoubling his efforts would still only mean spending half an hour per day working on Project Lazarus. And who named these things, anyway? Might as well call it _Project Dead And Buried._ Erskine had taken his secrets to his grave, and it would take more than Project Lazarus to bring Project Rebirth back from the ashes.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

General Ernst Kaufmann walked beside Francis Pollard and pretended to be interested in what the SIS-man was saying. As he walked, he tried to ignore the two armed guards walking ten paces behind them. Told himself they were there for his protection. A guard of honour, perhaps.

"We apprehended another _Abwehr_ spy posing as a refugee from Poland this morning. MI5 are going to have a chat with him about how we might help each other."

Pollard paused, and Kaufmann recognised it as a desire for input. He cleared his throat.

"Your MI5 has made impressive progress in capturing the spies," he offered. "And in so successfully using so many of them as double-agents. Your success rate is astounding."

"Almost one-hundred percent," Pollard gloated with a smile. "If it wasn't for that one who killed himself before we could bring him in, it would be a perfect record. MI5 are very proud of their work."

"As they should be."

The SIS agent's smile turned conciliatory. "Ahh, but forgive me General Kaufmann, I'm sure you tire of hearing me tell you about all your fellow countrymen we catch trying to sneak their way into the country."

"It pleases me to hear of your victories over Hitler," Kaufmann told him. Thoughts of Hitler still hurt deep in his chest. The lies, the slander… the bullet that went through his lung, missing his heart by millimetres. Yes, it still hurt to breathe deeply.

Small talk came to an end as they reached the laboratory. Pollard opened the door, and Kaufmann stepped inside. The dozen scientists in the room looked up; half of them nodded at him. _His_ men. The best he had been able to bring with him. Those loyal to him after _Sturmabteilung_ _'s_ fall. He trusted them with his life, because they had saved it. During the Night of the Long Knives, they had taken his dying body from Castle Kaufmann and brought him to safety. Others had joined them, a handful of SA soldiers who'd now been assigned to the joint British-American scientific service. Men who would give their lives to help bring down HYDRA and take their revenge upon Schmidt.

His hands shook, as they always did when he thought of that traitorous _wiesel_. He'd learnt, not long after making his deal with the English, that Schmidt had taken up residence in Castle Kaufmann, and the thought of the bastard living in Kaufmann's family home, walking its corridors, using its facilities as if he _owned_ it… If thoughts of Hitler hurt, thoughts of Schmidt _raged._

He forced his hands to calmness, let his fists open as he turned to the first of the scientists. He spoke to the man in German, knowing Pollard could understand every word. He asked how progress on Project Lazarus was going ("slowly"), and gave the man news about his family ("They are well. Still safe. Still healthy") and after he had spoken with the man, he repeated similar conversations with the rest. It was a routine, but one they all needed.

Nine years. This year it had been nine years since Schmidt's attempt to murder him. At first, Kaufmann believed that the scientist had acted on his own, jealous of Kaufmann's power, angry over his rejection. Then he'd heard a public denouncement. A broadcast in Hitler's own voice explaining how he, Kaufmann, had been executed for attempting to organise a coup! He'd scarcely been able to believe it. Almost hadn't. Almost went running to Hitler, to tell him of Schmidt's betrayal. It was only when his men begged and pleaded with him that he realised where the _true_ betrayal lay.

The deal he had made with the English was not so bad. They called him _General_ , even though he wasn't that anymore. They gave him a house to live in. Nothing compared to the extravagance of Castle Kaufmann, but decent enough in these troubling times. They allowed him to oversee his science team. They gave him updates—real updates, not just what their news service broadcast—about the war. They accepted the intelligence he provided for them, and listened to his recommendations. They allowed him a small staff to serve him, and gave him an allowance for buying nice things for the house they had given him. They allowed him to visit the theatre in West End, and permitted him to be escorted on long walks in London's more _genteel_ districts. They sent young, educated men to show him around museums and art galleries, and some of those young men were quite amenable.

The food was terrible, of course, and the beer was worse, but at least he was alive. There were less comfortable places to be, in this war.

After he had finished speaking with the few men he could truly consider friends, Pollard hit him with a small bit of news.

"We've heard from reliable sources that Schmidt has a fellow named Arnim Zola working around the clock to replicate Dr. Erskine's serum."

 _Geduld_ , he told the hands that once again twitched into fists at _that_ name. _Geduld. Patience_. Eventually, Schmidt would get what was coming to him.

"Arnim Zola is no biologist," he assured Pollard. "And better yet, he has no _interest_ in biology. You need not worry, I think." Zola would die, too. When Schmidt had been dealt with, those who were loyal to him would be punished just as severely. Schmidt had slaughtered Kaufmann's entire staff, save those who had brought him to England. Zola, alone, had been spared. The man's fate was sealed.

"And what of your colleagues? Have they made any progress on analysing the blood samples we provided?" asked Pollard, as if he hadn't understood the entirety of the conversations held in German.

"Progress is slow," Kaufmann told him. "But sometimes, slow is good. You would not want to hurry this. Not after what happened the first time it was rushed. It hasn't even been three months yet."

Pollard gave a mollified grunt. "Very well."

Kaufmann glanced down at his wristwatch. Six-thirty. It was almost time for his evening's entertainment. The thought stirred something other than hatred inside him.

"Do you have somewhere to be?" Pollard asked, when he noticed Kaufmann's check of his watch, and the accompanying smile.

"As a matter of fact, Lord Kendrick has invited me to a private demonstration of the new telescope designed by the Royal Astronomical Society." He had no idea whether Thomas Kendrick really was a Lord, or merely given that title to pander to Kaufmann's whims. But it didn't matter. Lord or not, he had a handsome, chiselled face with luscious, full lips.

"I didn't know you had an interest in astronomy, General."

"I don't."

Pollard gave an awkward little cough. "Quite so. Well, I shan't keep you. Your driver is waiting outside, and your guards will see you safely to your destination. We will speak again next week."

"Next week," Kaufmann agreed.

His guards followed diligently as he swept along down the corridor of the now-familiar facility. _Next week_. Since arriving in England there had been 468 'next weeks,' and he longed for the day when he would no longer have to see Pollard _next week_. The only reason he had tolerated his exile for so long was the knowledge that there would come a time when Schmidt and Hitler were no longer, when all of his enemies had fallen and he could finally return home to take his rightful place as leader of a nation marching towards greatness.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Captain America was on the radio. _The Adventures of Captain America_. Steve had thought that it would be small fry compared to being on the big screen, but Kevin assured him that radio was _bigger_ than the big screen. In order to see Captain America movies, people had to make the effort to leave their houses, and pay money, and put up with annoying children shouting and jeering throughout the whole movie. It was something not everybody wanted to experience. Not everybody could _afford_.

Radio was bigger because it was _already there_. It was in homes and diners. All people had to do was switch the radio on, tune in to the right station, and there Captain America was. It was easy. It was ubiquitous. It was _advertising_. Those people who didn't want to experience Captain America on the big screen might change their minds after hearing him on the radio.

Steve hadn't met the voice actor who played Captain America on the radio, and he didn't want to. The man had a voice with a deep, heroic timbre, and he sounded nothing at all like Steve. But he sounded like Captain America, and that was what counted.

He pushed himself up from his hotel bed, strode the two long paces to the radio, and unplugged it from the wall. Silence reigned, but it wasn't a _true_ silence. For Steve, there were no true silences anymore. Project Rebirth had honed his senses, as well as altering his physiology. His eyesight was the sharpest of his senses; he saw everything up close in perfect detail. He could make his way through a room of obstacles with only the smallest iota of light to see by. He could make out writing on signs from remarkably far away.

His sense of hearing came in close second. In a quiet room, he could hear his own heartbeat. He could hear footsteps approaching from the furthest length of a corridor, or the footfalls of people walking far behind him down city streets. The buzz of flies was an annoying drone; he heard them as if they hovered directly in his ear. Even now, in the radio-less silence of the hotel room, he heard noise. The voices from the rooms around and below his. The traffic on the street far below. The swish of the ceiling fan as its blades cut the air. The quiet rumble of the building's plumbing as faucets were switched on and off in different rooms.

The world was alive in ways it never had been before, and at that moment it was alive with the approach of familiar footsteps on the carpeted floor outside his room. Steve opened the door and found Kevin standing there, his hand half-raised in preparation for knocking. The man's eyes widened slightly at the perceived prescience, and a smile quickly slid across his face.

"I got your message," Kevin said, thumbing a direction over his shoulder that was probably meant to indicate the reception desk. "What's so important that it can't wait till tomorrow's show?"

Steve gestured for Kevin to enter his room and take a seat on the long chair in front of the vanity unit. As Kevin unbuttoned his jacket and made himself comfortable, Steve took a deep breath. Went over the lines in his mind. He'd gotten pretty good at memorising lines. The shows had been good practice; the moving pictures, even better. He didn't even need cue-cards, now.

"I've been thinking long and hard about my future," he started. When he realised Kevin was looking up at him, he sank down onto the edge of his bed. Tried to appear less imposing. "And I don't think I can do this anymore." Kevin opened his mouth, but Steve rushed on. "Don't get me wrong, I'm truly grateful to you and Senator Brandt for everything you've done for me. I can honestly say that I've done things I never would've imagined myself doing. Been places I never even dreamt I'd see. But I don't _belong_ here. The stage isn't where I was made to be. Neither's the big screen, or the radio. I'm meant to be on the front lines, serving my country. I've done everything Senator Brandt has asked, and the Captain America wagon is well and truly rolling. You've got three movies, and the fourth is being released in a couple of weeks. You've got the comics. You've got the radio shows with a guy who sounds _much_ more heroic than me. Heck, you could stick anybody in the USO costume, and people would believe it's "me" on that stage. I wanna pass the torch. Let someone else be Captain America, now. I want to be Steve Rogers again. Private Steve Rogers. I wanna be a soldier, and I think I've earned that right."

When he realised he was toying with his hands, picking at his thumbnail, he forced himself to stop and meet Kevin's gaze. This wasn't a decision he had taken lightly, and he knew Senator Brandt wouldn't let him go easily, but it was taking too long for them to get him to the front lines. He'd enlisted. Already done one week of Basic. With the connections he'd made thanks to Brandt, he could approach someone in the Army, beg to be assigned to some training camp to complete his Basic training, and perhaps finally be sent off to fight. Sure, it would take nearly three months, but if he could get shipped out straight after boot camp, even as nothing more than a private, he could be in Europe in time for Christmas.

Kevin stood up, heaving a long, slow sigh as he paced the room a couple of times. His dark eyebrows were pulled down into a low frown. "Well. I gotta admit, that's a real blow to us, Steve. A real blow. I was counting on you joining us in Europe next month. But I understand, you gotta do what you gotta do. It's not like we could stop you; I mean, you wrestled a submarine for godssake." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe I'll call Bob Hope. He's done a few shows on the west coast, he might free up his schedule for a trip to Europe. A real patriot, Bob."

Steve was on his feet in a heartbeat; his own heart was beating pretty damn fast.

"What do you mean? We're going to Europe?"

Kevin ceased pacing and turned to face him. "Well, we _were_."

"Since when?!"

"I found out two days ago, from Senator Brandt, and—"

"Why didn't you tell me?!" Steve demanded with a groan. And to think, he'd almost gone down to the local enlistment centre earlier that afternoon to sign up _again_ as _Steve from Sausalito._

"I wanted it to be a surprise! I was gonna wait until your 75th show next week, and give you the good news at the end of it."

"Why now?" he asked. Months of nothing, and now that he'd threatened to leave, they were giving him what he wanted? "Why's it taken so long?"

Kevin seemed shocked by the question. "Steve, in case you hadn't noticed, there's a war going on! About the only safe place we could've gone was England, but that's not exactly 'the front lines' like you wanted; unless you were happy to entertain the Krauts, of course." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Look, we got word less than a week ago that Patton now holds Sicily, and our boys have launched an invasion of mainland Italy. That means we now have air bases in the Med. That means we can fly directly to Sicily without being shot down by the Krauts. Did you think we were going to risk your life—not to mention the girls' lives, and _mine_ —by flying us over enemy territory without air support or a safe place to touch down? Now that we've got a foothold in Europe, we can start sending the USO there. The Senator's working on a schedule for you _as we speak_."

"Oh." Steve couldn't decide whether he felt like a fool who'd been played, or a fool who'd brought his own foolishness on himself. "When do we leave?"

"If all goes well, and Patton holds on to Sicily, mid October."

Steve nodded. Mid October. Just over a month. He could handle that. Another month of shows, and movie scenes, and photograph poses, and autograph signing, and hand-shaking. A month, and he'd be in Sicily! Was Bucky there? Had he been a part of the invading force? Would Steve look out across the audience and, with his new keen eyes, see his best friend looking back?

The thought was enough to make his stomach churn like a bucketful of worms. At least with his mask on, Bucky wouldn't recognise him. If Bucky was there, on Sicily, in the audience, Steve could find a quiet moment to change into something less flamboyant than his costume, find his friend, and explain exactly what had happened. He'd written to the Barnes family a couple of times, and had asked them not to mention anything about his… transformation, in their letters to Bucky. Steve himself hadn't written any letters because heck, what could he possibly say? " _Dear Bucky, yesterday I was a Frankenscience experiment, and now I can wrestle submarines_ "? No. He couldn't do this in a letter. He had to find his friend and explain in person. That was the plan. That had always been the plan.

"Why don't I give you some time to get your head around the idea?" Kevin asked, when Steve offered no other comment. "There's no hurry. If you've got anything you want to do before we go, any business you wanna take care of, you have a whole month to do it in. Take it easy, Rogers, and I'll see you tomorrow at the show."

Kevin clapped him on the arm, and left. Steve's thoughts ran at a thousand miles an hour, his brain already compiling that list of _things to do_. One, visit Terrence's kids' school again. Two, write to Mr. and Mrs. Barnes and explain to them he was going to join their son. The Barnes family were like family to him, and had been even before his mom had died. He'd written to them, whilst on the tour… maybe he'd have chance to see them again, before leaving for Europe.

Yes. He'd go home, one last time. See Bucky's family. Ask them if they had any letters they wanted him to take for Bucky. Then he could take care of his final piece of business. One last wreath to put on his parents' graves. He'd leave an order with a florist to keep up the deliveries, but he couldn't go to war without seeing his mom and dad one last time. It had already been too long, and who knew how long he'd be in Europe for? Maybe it wouldn't end there. Maybe after Europe, they'd send him to the Pacific, to help the war effort against Japan.

He didn't dwell on the minutiae. Didn't worry about how he'd get from _performing_ on the front lines to _fighting_ on the front lines. He'd plan for that later, when he was finally on foreign soil. Somehow, he would find a way to make it happen. He was going to Europe, and nothing would hold him back.


	53. Fifteen Days

_Author_ _'s note: The events in this chapter do not necessarily take place over fifteen_ consecutive _days. Also, the military offensive(s) in this chapter do not correspond to offensives which happened in the real Italian Campaign_ _—it took much longer for Allied troops to reach northern and central Italy than implied here, and some of the locations are of my own invention. But hey, it_ _'s fiction!_

 _Additionally, I_ _'ve had a roller coaster of a week. I lost my cat of 20 years, and gained a puppy of 9 weeks. Therefore, there will be a 2 week break from the story to allow me to recharge my emotional batteries (which are currently very depleted) and to catch up on the stories I follow and haven't had time to read/review yet. I do, however, leave you with this rather lengthy chapter. Parts of it are some of the saddest things I've ever written._

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _53\. Fifteen Days_

 ** _One_**

Bucky held his breath as he stood at the edge of the camp's latrine pit and fixed his gaze on the nearby timberline. It wasn't too bad if the company was marching every day, because they got a fresh pit every night. When the company was camped for longer, however, the smell became more and more intolerable with every passing day. The warm, early-September weather certainly didn't help matters.

As soon as he'd finished, he zipped up his fly, exhaled, and turned swiftly away to take a deep breath of fresh air. He very nearly turned right into Private Biggs, who was hovering behind him, permeated with a melancholy air that had nothing to do with the foul latrine smell.

"Jeez, Biggs!" Bucky gasped, as his frightened heart settled down. "You shouldn't lurk behind people like that, especially not at the pits. You'll get a reputation."

"Sorry, Sarge. I just wanted to talk to you, and this was the first time I've seen you alone all day."

"If you wanted to talk in private, Private, all you had to do was ask."

"Yeah, I guess. I didn't wanna inconvenience you, though."

"It's no inconvenience at all," Bucky assured him. Biggs was one of the nicest guys in the whole regiment. He never complained, never caused a fuss, didn't waste time boasting and grandstanding, was always polite and respectful to everyone he met… he really was the embodiment of the phrase 'gentle giant,' and Bucky had all the time in the world for him. "Let's step away from the pits and you can tell me what's on your mind."

Biggs nodded, and Bucky led him away. As they walked, he assessed the big man from the corner of his eye. There was an unhappy slump to Biggs' shoulders, and a sadness in his eyes which exacerbated the melancholy air suffusing him. He was a good man and a good soldier; one who would probably never make sergeant. Though a good soldier, he preferred to follow than to lead, and until now he'd always seemed content with army life.

"What did you want to talk about?" Bucky asked, once they'd found a quiet spot with plenty of fresh air going for it.

Biggs shuffled his feet, toeing a stone before looking up to meet Bucky's eyes. "There's no easy way to say this, Sarge, so I'm just gonna come out and say it. I think you shouldn't send me on any more combat ops."

Bucky blinked. Of all the things Biggs could'a said, it was not what he'd been expecting.

"Why?"

"Well... " Biggs took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Y'see… I'm cursed, Sarge."

"Cursed?"

"Yes."

"Can you… um… elaborate?" Suddenly, Bucky felt like the chaplain being confronted with somebody's irrational and non-existent fear of vampires. In fact, maybe he ought to refer this one to Lt. Olliver. Surely the chaplain knew how to pretend to remove a curse to reassure the men, didn't he?

"I'm bad luck, Sarge," Biggs said. His wide eyes grew misty. "Every mission I go on, somebody dies. First mission, Danzig bought it. I was on the recon with Gusty and Tipper, and you know how that one turned out. Then there was Lieutenant Nestor; I may not have been in his jeep, but I was there. At first I thought maybe it was Gusty who was the cursed one. He was there for all of those too, and also when Stoller got shot. But Gusty wasn't with us when Pearson died. I'm the only common link between all of the dead men. You gotta pull me off combat ops, Sarge, before I get more men killed."

Bucky's heart went out to the guy. He really seemed to genuinely believe that he was to blame for the deaths. How long had he been wrestling with those thoughts? How long had he been blaming himself for something that was entirely out of his control? Clearly, he'd been considering it for some time, and it must be eating him up if he thought he had to be pulled off combat missions.

"Biggs," he said, clapping the big man on his shoulder, "I promise, none of those deaths were your fault. You're not cursed, and you're not a source of bad luck; you're just unlucky. Unlucky that you were on those missions when we lost men. That's all."

"I'm not so sure, Sarge."

"Well, I am. And I can prove it."

Hope flickered in the private's eyes. "How?"

"Next mission I go on, you're coming as well. It will go smoothly, and then you'll see once and for all that you're not cursed."

Biggs almost burst into tears, at that. "Please don't make me go, Sarge! I don't wanna get you killed, too."

"Do you trust me?"

"I guess." Bucky lifted one eyebrow at the hesitant tone. "I mean, yes, of course. You helped me out with my sleepwalking, and you rescued Wells and Carrot from falling off a cliff, and some other stuff too. I trust you a lot more than I trust myself."

"Then trust me now. You're coming with me on the mission, and you won't get me killed. Or anyone else, for that matter." Bucky mustered his best reassuring smile, then said something extremely stupid. "I promise."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 ** _Two_**

Engines roared into the night like angry beasts voicing their displeasure. The roars were punctuated by the staccato of gunfire, of M1s and Colts, and the responding shots from German rifles and pistols. Crouched in the shadow of a Sherman tank, and with Biggs by his side, Bucky fired shot after shot from his M1, and reloaded his ammo clip the second it was spent with fluidity borne of experience. He lost only three seconds of firing time in the reload.

He didn't hear the hatch of the tank open, but he heard the gunner call down.

"Sergeant Barnes, we can't wait any longer! The rest of the team's out of sight, and we're a sitting duck!"

Bucky tore his eyes away from the forest and looked up to the tank. The gunner was a dark silhouette against the clear black sky, a vague form that blocked out the twinkling stars.

"We wait," he shouted up.

"But Sergeant—"

"If you move that tank before I give the order, I'm gonna come up there and turn it around," Bucky growled. Then he turned his focus back to the trees, where Nazis were doing their best to erase Sergeant James Barnes from the history books.

The sound of hurrying feet reached his ears between reloads. Down the rough chipped path which led to the German munitions factory, Wells and Hodge appeared at full pelt. The Krauts shot blindly at the sound of their footsteps, their bullets miraculously missing.

"Get that tank moving!" Wells yelled, while he and Hodge were still thirty metres out.

Bucky didn't need telling twice. He hopped up onto the right-side mudguard of the wide tracked wheels and banged his fist several times on the metal shell.

"Go!" he shouted through the vehicle's wall. "For Godssake, go!"

He couldn't hear the voices inside the tank, but he imagined they were swearing at him. The tank began moving, and Biggs sprang onto the left-side mudguard as the vehicle pulled away.

Hodge and Wells put on a burst of speed, and as they drew level with the tank, Bucky shouldered his rifle and leaned forward, reaching out with his hand. Wells grabbed it, and Bucky's shoulder complained as he hauled his friend up onto the mudguard. On the other side of the tank, Biggs was hauling Hodge up, too.

"How long left on the clock?" he asked. From the trees running beside the path, a German appeared, taking aim with his rifle at the men on the tank. Bucky pulled out his Colt and dropped the guy before he could get off his shot.

"About five sec—"

The night erupted in a spectacular display of pyrotechnics as the munitions factory was engulfed in a blazing fireball. Flames spilled out across the forest, leaping into the sky, spitting burning gunpowder into the air. Instinctively, Bucky used his free hand to grip a projecting part of the tank's exterior, and a second later a shockwave hit him hard, knocking the air from his lungs, popping his ears and sending him sliding into Wells, who was also scrabbling for a handhold.

The shockwave passed and he sat up a little straighter. A quick glance across to the other side of the tank showed him Hodge and Biggs still had their own seats.

"I SAID FIVE SECONDS," Wells shouted. At least, Bucky _thought_ he was shouting. It came across as more of a whisper, muted by the muffled, garbled roar of the tank, as if he was hearing everything from under deep water. Wells stuck his pinky finger in his ear and wiggled it around a few times. "I THINK I'M DEAF."

"ME TOO!" Bucky said. He turned his head and said, "HEY, HODGE! BIGGS! CAN YOU HEAR ME?" There was no response, so he turned his attention back to Wells. By the light of the stars and the moon, he saw that his friend had a black, sooty smudge on his cheek, like a kid who'd stuck his head into the dirt-caked chimney of an old coal fire.

Wells gave him a glance that was full of suspicion. "WHAT ARE YOU GRINNING LIKE THAT FOR?"

Fighting a smirk, Bucky closed his eyes and leant back against the tank. "NO REASON."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 ** _Three_**

"Will you teach me French?"

A week after the mission to San Vinadio, Bucky had finally remembered his promise to himself. He looked over to Wells, who was sprawled on his camp bed, his nose buried in a pocket-edition book. He'd finally found one in Gusty's ever-changing collection that he hadn't read before.

Wells didn't even bother glancing up. "No."

"Aw, c'mon."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a stupid language and you don't need to speak it."

"That's not true." Bucky plugged his ink bottle with its stopper and set aside a letter he'd written to home. A few minutes of air-drying, and he could slip it into its envelope without the ink smudging too much. "Back in San Vinadio, if I'd been able to speak French, we might've conversed quietly without giving ourselves away. It might come in useful, in future."

A loud snort escaped from Wells, and his eyes danced up to Bucky's face. "Doubtful. We're not in France anymore, so it's not like there's anyone you need to be conversant with. And if you want a language we can speak without giving ourselves away, you should pick something like a non-verbal language. We could invent our own sign-language. Let's start with this one." Wells held up one hand, first two fingers forming a V.

"Don't be like that," Bucky scolded.

With a sigh, Wells dog-eared his page and sat up cross-legged on his bed.

"Fine. But what's _really_ sparked this sudden desire to become a Francophone?"

Bucky chewed on his lower lip for a moment as he tried to decide how much to admit. Finally, he decided on full disclosure.

"Back in San Vinadio, when things were going sideways, I didn't have a clue what was going on. I hated sitting there, not being able to do anything but wait. If I spoke French—or hell, even Italian—I might've had some inkling of what was happening. Maybe you could'a warned me you were reaching for your gun."

"I did."

"I mean, you could'a given me something more than a worried look. I don't like feeling helpless like that. Not knowing what's happening, or what I can do."

"Welcome to life, pal. That's just the way it is sometimes. You can't control everything."

"I can try," Bucky pouted. Maybe he was being slightly unrealistic, but what if the next time, his lack of knowledge got someone killed? They'd been lucky in San Vinadio; lucky that Bucky had read Wells' expression correctly, and that he'd seen his fellow sergeant reach for his gun. Next time, they might not have luck on their side.

"Sure you can," Wells agreed. "But what if next time it isn't me who's sat at that table with you? What if it's Gusty, or Hodge, or Franklin? They don't speak French. If that happens, you'll be me, and they'll be you, and you'll be back at square one."

"I could order them to learn French..?"

His suggestion was met with a stony stare, and Bucky finally sighed in defeat.

"Okay, you've made your point. I can't control everything, much as I might like to. But I still think knowing another language might come in handy."

"Can I make a suggestion?" Bucky nodded, and Wells continued. "All the major players in this war are either speaking English or speaking German. Regardless of which side comes out on top—and I sincerely believe it's gonna be us, and not those sausage-breath Krauts—nobody is gonna be speaking French. If you wanna to learn a language that's not gonna keep you in the dark, learn German, because you already know English."

"But I hate the way German sounds," he complained. "All harsh and angry, like it's being shouted rather than spoken."

"But it would be more useful." Wells returned to his book, leaving Bucky to his thoughts.

Maybe Wells was right. Maybe it would be better to learn a useful, angry language than a useless, pleasant one. If Bucky could speak German, Krauts would never be able to have conversations around him without him knowing what they were saying. But then, the only person Bucky knew who could speak German was Agent Carter, and he wasn't sure she'd make a good teacher. She didn't seem to like him very much.

On the other hand, it _would_ be a good opportunity to spend more time with one of the few dames in camp, and maybe work on changing her mind about him. A chance to convince her he wasn't the bad guy she seemed to believe him.

"Will you teach me French?" he asked Wells.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 ** _Four_**

Men began to crowd around the six deep holes in the ground. Beside the holes were six mounds of earth. Bucky was starting to lose count of how many mounds of earth he'd seen.

Never before had they lost so many men from one regiment on a single mission. A squad from the 69th Infantry had gone up against an entire company of Germans, but their victory had not come cheap. Their captain was lying unconscious in a hospital bed, severely wounded. They'd lost a sergeant, a corporal and four privates.

Bucky stopped in a line behind the 69th, squeezing himself in between Gusty and Hawkins. On the opposite side of the graves were the 370th Infantry and the support troops. The nurses were there, too, dabbing at their eyes with clean white handkerchiefs. Bucky didn't know how they did it. How they managed to get the tears to stop. Until now he'd kept his own tears back, because if they started flowing, he didn't think he'd ever be able to stop them. There was too much sadness. Too much loss. It was easier not to cry. Easier to pretend to be strong, even though each death shattered him a little more.

He didn't look around at the faces nearby. He didn't want to see reflections of his own stoic countenance. Didn't want to see sorrow and loss hidden behind eyes which tried to show nothing. And when Lieutenant Olliver appeared and began to lead the service, Bucky didn't let his mind dwell on the words. He'd heard them before, a dozen times. The words were the same; only the names changed. This wasn't the real memorial service. The true service would come later, days or weeks down the line, when the men who'd known the deceased finally felt ready to talk about them, to let them live again, if only in memory.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 ** _Five_**

Bucky held his rifle tight as he and the rest of his squad advanced towards the facility. The Nazi guards and overseers were on their knees, their weapons laid on the ground in front of them, but into their faces were etched deep scowls, their gazes burning as their eyes glanced over the dark faces of the men from the 370th who'd made up a third of the assault team. Part of him hoped none of those Kraut sons of bitches were stupid enough to try anything. Part of him hoped that they were.

Captain Banks had command of the mission. When he was sure all resistance had been quelled, he approached Bucky, Wells and Dugan, who each led a team of men.

"The compound's secure. Signal the medics to come in."

Wells hurried off to carry out the command, and before long a flood of white uniforms came pouring in through the gate. Three doctors and ten nurses had always been enough for the SSR; now, Bucky suspected three times as many wouldn't have been enough.

He shadowed one of the doctors as the man wound his way through the camp with two of the nurses in tow. He tried to keep his focus on his surroundings, to not see the frail, emaciated, broken bodies around him, but they were the proverbial elephant in the room, and he found himself unable to look away.

They were living skeletons. Paper-thin skin draped tragically over bones so that every harsh angle stood out in painful detail. If he hadn't already known how many ribs a person had, he could've learnt it by counting the ribs visible on every body in the camp. Never before had he imagined that a human being could be so thin and still be alive. Steve was skinny, but not like this. Steve was skinny, but these people were _starved._

Their clothes were mud-caked, shapeless rags, and their eyes followed him dully as he kept a protective watch over the medical staff who tried to assess and help those who were not too far gone. There were men, women and children in the camp, and sometimes it was hard to tell which were which.

He heard muted whispers from those strong enough to stand, and they began to crowd around the medics and the soldiers. Their voices whispered in German, and Bucky felt a flame of anger spark inside him. The prisoners were Germans; the Nazis had done this to their own people. Shipped them off to some work camp, where they would slave and starve until they died.

The first time he felt fingers pluck at his uniform, he jumped with alarm, and his hand drifted to his Colt in case it was being slipped from its holster. A group of prisoners crowded closer, their skeletal fingers reaching out towards him, brushing his arm, his shoulder, his chest, his back, their hands groping feebly at his jacket as they moved closer to embrace him with their bone-thin arms.

The stench of decaying, unwashed bodies assaulted him, a malevolent miasma that made his stomach heave. The stink of death and illness was a stark contrast to their faces; tears rolled down their sagging, grimy cheeks as they gazed at him, leaving pale tracks in the dirt. Cracked, leathery skin of fingers and hands brushed across his face, stroked his hair, as if they longed for the touch of something—anything—that was soft and warm and clean.

They asked for nothing, demanded no food, no help, no comfort beyond his presence. They mumbled sentences in German interspersed with infrequent English words; _Thank you. Liberator. Angel. Saviour._ They thanked him and blessed him even as their bodies continued to die. Nearby, Biggs had opened up his ration kit and was handing out all of its contents to people who barely had enough teeth left to chew, and still the people came to touch him, to touch Captain Banks, and Gusty, and Wells, a flock of dying creatures rallying to thank the men who'd finally put an end to their harrowing period of suffering.

Bucky had long since given up trying to stop his own tears; they came freely, and were brushed swiftly away by hands that hadn't seen anything as kind as tears since the first day of their imprisonment.

It was a long, emotionally exhausting day. The liberators gave away all of their food; the people of the camp needed it more. Some died even as they were freed, and were buried with full honours outside the chain-and-barbed-wire fence of the compound, so that in death they could experience the freedom they had been denied in life. Captain Banks rotated the men who were guarding the German camp overseers frequently, because the longer men stood with their weapons trained on the Nazis, the more often they came to him with their suggestions of executing them all.

Two hours after nightfall, a flock of Red Cross personnel arrived, escorted by a company of infantry from the British Third Army. Captain Banks ordered the men assigned to the SSR to pull out, and handed oversight of the liberation to the new arrivals.

They marched back to the SSR's camp, eight miles away. Their stomachs were empty, but none of them were hungry. Not a man spoke as they marched, and Nurse Klein didn't stop crying even after they got back to camp.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _Six_

"Ceasefire!" Bucky called, as something white was waved frantically out of a small, broken-shuttered window. All around him, the guns fell silent.

He peered again over the irregular stone wall behind which he and his team were crouched. There was movement in the town; men stepped out from doorways, from behind buildings and abandoned cars, guns held aloft over their heads. Eight in total, they wore uniforms of the Italian Army, but their clothes were dusty, creased, and a couple were stained dark where men had bled or been bled on. Their faces were as dusty as their clothes, their eyes conveying harrowed expressions Bucky had seen on the faces of his own men, and in his small shaving mirror.

He felt momentarily sorry for them. Word was the Germans were withdrawing to behind the Apennines, leaving their Italian allies alone on the western side of the country. Word also had it a peace was being negotiated between the Italian government and the Allies. That soon, Italy would become a neutral party. It was a failing country occupied by multiple enemy forces, a battleground on which a war would be waged, its soldiers unsure of what they were still fighting for.

But right now, they were still the enemy.

Bucky pressed the transmit button on his radio. "Wells, tell them to throw down their weapons."

"THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS!" Wells' voice called from further to the east of the town's periphery.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but the Italians obeyed, tossing their guns into a pile with a clatter that echoed down the empty streets. He couldn't remember the name of this town, but its name wasn't important. All that mattered was subduing the enemy force holding it.

"Franklin, you're with me," he said. "The rest of you, stay sharp."

He pushed himself to his feet and frog-leaped over the wall with Franklin right behind him. They both held their rifles tightly as they advanced, and a moment later, Wells and Davies appeared from behind their own cover.

The Italians stood still as the Americans approached. They seemed a bunch of twitchy fellas, their eyes darting over the ground, then up to the faces of their attackers, before darting back down again as if afraid to be seen looking. Where the town's civilians were, Bucky had no idea. Maybe they'd evacuated, or maybe they were holed up inside their homes, families clutching each other tightly under kitchen tables as they prayed and waited for the violence to pass.

 _Crack._

The quiet report of an SSR-01 being fired made Bucky jump. Two seconds later, he saw something fall from the top of a church tower. It hit the ground with a meaty thud, followed by the clatter of a dropped weapon. The gun was a sniper rifle, and the body was wearing the uniform of a German soldier.

A flame of anger ignited within him.

"These cowardly bastards are using our own tactics against us!" he said to Wells, before turning a scowl on the Italians. "Don't you know that's perfidy? Wells, ask them if they know that's perfidy."

"Do you know that's perfidy?" Wells asked the most senior officer amongst them.

The Italian _capitano_ cringed. "Si, si. The Germans, they said they had to withdraw. They told us to stay here and draw the Americans out into the open. Please signore, it was not our idea."

Bucky lifted his radio again. "Good shooting, Tex. Wells, ask them when the Germans left."

"When did the Germans leave?" Wells asked the captain.

"Yesterday. They took most of our weapons and all of our vehicles. Also food, and medical supplies."

"What should we do with them, Sarge?" asked Franklin.

Bucky eyed them up. Now that they were no longer shooting at his team, the foreign soldiers looked normal. Kinda feeble, actually. One or two fidgeted nervously, their eyes darting from American face to American face. They weren't quite as composed as their German counterparts.

"We don't have room for prisoners," he said. "We'll execute them."

The Italian captain's face paled, and one of the others let out a whimper.

"But signore! It is against the Geneva Accord, which both our governments have signed!"

"He's right," Wells agreed. "It wouldn't be right to shoot these men."

"What's the alternative? That we take them back to camp and the colonel orders them shot anyway?"

"It's still wrong," said Wells. "And I'll have no part in it."

"Fine." Bucky turned his head, to call out the rest of the team. "Men, form a firing squad!"

The rest of the team trudged reluctantly out and formed a line with their rifles. Two of the Italians broke down in tears, and another began praying rapidly in Italian, his gaze cast to the sky.

"I hope your superiors learn of what you have done here," the Italian captain said. "And that you are punished for your crimes."

Bucky watched the foreign soldiers as they straightened up, preparing for death. Two were still crying. That meant he'd lost the bet.

"Hodge wins," Davies agreed, as if on cue. "Everybody owes him five bucks."

"Yes!" yelled Hodge, punching the air with his fist. "Hot damn, I finally won something!"

No doubt they'd be hearing about this for the rest of the war. Hodge sure liked to rub his victories—whether real or perceived—in other people's faces.

"Alright Gusty, cuff 'em," Bucky instructed.

The Italian captain looked incredulous. "You… you're not going to execute us?"

"Naw. We just wanted to see how many of you we could make cry. You and your men are going back to our camp for questioning, and then you'll be handed over to one of the British companies, to be sent to England as POWs."

Gusty oversaw the cuffing of the prisoners, then handed them over to the rest of the team. Bucky made Hodge take point, and set himself at the back of the column, so he wouldn't have to hear the private's gloating.

"That was a bad thing you did," Wells told him.

"It was your idea!"

"Yeah, but you went along with it. And you're supposed to be the responsible one."

Bucky's brows lowered into a frown. "If I'd known Hodge was gonna win, I would've put my foot down and said no."

This, he decided, was the last time he was gonna let Wells talk him into a bet.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 ** _Seven_**

Bucky's eyes roved over the pages of his Army Editions book without truly seeing the words. He'd been trying to read _Diversey_ for three days, but just couldn't get into the story. He didn't like the protagonist and the plot didn't much appeal, but he made a point of finishing every book he started, so he persevered. Let his eyes slide over the words which sank no further into his mind.

The tent flap flew open and in strode Wells. His face was covered with a layer of dust, except where trickles of sweat had made lighter tracks in his cheeks, and his olive drab uniform was decidedly greyer than it had been two days ago. His boots were caked with a thick layer of dried mud, and an unlit tobacco pipe was clenched between his teeth.

"So, you finally managed to win that thing off Dugan," Bucky said, sitting up with a grin.

Wells rolled his eyes. "Yeah. And he whined at me about it for the whole trip. Fuckin' cry-baby. I think it makes me look dignified. What do you think?" he asked, turning his head so Bucky could see him in profile.

"I think it makes you look like a jerk."

"Don't worry, I'll let him buy it back off me next week for three times what it's worth. But enough about Dugan; I saw the Kraut cars at the motor pool. I take it your mission was a success?"

Bucky nodded. He'd got back from his mission twenty-four hours ago, and had spent his time enjoying the relative peace and quiet of the camp.

"Yeah. I've no idea what Phillips wants with a couple of German vehicles, and I think I'd rather not know. That way, he can't involve me in his next crazy scheme. How about you? How was the supply drop?"

"Off-target, as usual." With a deep sigh, Wells sank down onto his bed beside Bucky's and shrugged off his haversack. His M1 was unceremoniously dumped on his pillow, along with his hard-won pipe. "Took us five hours in the pouring rain to load everything into the jeeps. Halfway back, we hit a swamp. Jeeps sinking everywhere, men up to their knees in mud and water, supplies floating away… it was hell. But I _did_ manage to salvage these."

From his backpack, he pulled out a load of water-damaged envelopes tied together with a length of twine.

"Letters from civilisation," he explained. "They were in the largest crate. One of Dugan's men sorted through them by regiment, and these are ours."

Bucky's interest was immediately piqued. He leant over to look at the name on the first letter. Tried not to fidget, or snatch the whole pile from Wells' hands.

"Did I get one?"

"Dunno." Wells pulled out his knife and cut through the twine. "Let's see."

Bucky waited as his friend rifled through the pile. Though the envelopes were of uniform size and shape, they varied in thickness. Some were thin enough to contain only a single sheet of folded paper, while others clearly held several. He guessed the guys at the V-mail receiving office had printed multiple letters for some soldiers and just stuck them all in a single envelope, to save room.

"Ah, here you go." Wells held out a thick envelope. Bucky tore it open and pulled out the papers, his eyes catching sight of several different styles of handwriting. _Mom and Dad, Janet, Mary-Ann, Charlie_ … there were two letters apiece from his family, but none from Steve. Inside his chest, his heart sank. Why hadn't his best friend written him?

Suddenly, his sinking heart lurched. Maybe something had happened to him! Maybe Steve couldn't write because he was hospitalised with two broken arms, or… or… He grabbed the letter from his folks, scanning it for any mention of his best friend.

"Shit," Wells swore quietly.

Bucky lifted his eyes, to chastise his friend for interrupting his frantic search, but the crestfallen expression on Wells' face stopped him before he could even open his mouth.

"What is it?"

Wells merely held up an envelope. On the front, it said, _Corporal Kenneth Robbins. 107th Infantry._

"Shit," he agreed, as Wells ran a dirty hand through his dusty hair. "It must've been on its way here before the colonel finished his condolence letter."

"What should we do with it?"

"We'll send it back. With a note, explaining that we received it only recently. We got no right to open it, and we can't just throw it away."

Wells nodded and started digging through his bag for his pen and ink. He didn't have much luck, partially because he still had a hundred envelopes on his lap, partially because his hands were shaking.

"Here," Bucky said, taking the envelope from his hands. "I'll do it."

"My writing's neater than yours."

"And your hands are dirtier than mine," he pointed out. "Seriously, Wells, you only just got back. Go wash up and get changed. You look like you spent the last two days rolling in the mud."

"Alright." Wells relinquished his grip on his bag and set the rest of the envelopes down on his bed, ready for distribution. "You know, I can't wait till we get back to somewhere civilised, so that I can have a hot bath instead of a cold river, and wash my clothes with real soap, rather than whatever they're giving us now."

"I don't suppose you found another bottle of Scotch in those supply crates?"

Wells gave him a smile which didn't quite touch his blue eyes. "I wish I had. I could use a stiff drink right about now."

When Bucky was alone again, he sat with the letter in his hands, feeling the gentle weight of it settle against his fingers. Strange to think how a single envelope could hold the entirety of a person's hopes, fears and dreams. That something as complex as human emotion could be distilled via ink onto a plain piece of paper.

He glanced at the letters from his family, suddenly overcome by the need to read them, to reconnect with the people who'd been missing from his life for nearly three months.

Carefully, he slid the letters from home beneath his pillow, where they couldn't tempt him. There would be time for them later. Right now, he had one last duty to perform for Carrot.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 ** _Eight_**

Dozens of unfamiliar faces glanced at Bucky as he walked through the extended camp. Two days ago, they'd met up with a battalion from the Eighth Army, to carry out a couple of combined operations. It was a chance to meet new people, play poker with unsuspecting soldiers, and catch up on much-needed info and gossip about the rest of the war and life outside the SSR's rather secretive existence.

For once, Bucky's belly wasn't complaining. He'd had a breakfast of bacon and baked beans on toast—real toasted bread, not that hardtack rubbish the Army had stolen from the Navy—and now all he wanted to do was lie down with a good book and relax. But Gusty and Franklin wanted to play poker, so he'd agreed to join them in finding a couple of saps to play against.

They left the huge mess tent and set out to an area on the outskirts of the camp where informal gambling sprang up like weeds from the ground. En route, they passed by their host's small USO tent, and found Wells staring forlornly at a poster.

"What's up, pal?" Bucky asked, clapping a hand on Wells' shoulder.

Wells pointed wordlessly at the poster. He looked like the kid who'd just been told he'd be getting no Christmas presents this year.

The poster was bright and garish, and had the painted image of a flame-haired woman in one corner. In huge letters, it said, _'The USO is proud to present RITA HAYWORTH. Performing at Palermo, Sicily, on September 19th.'_

"Oh," Bucky said, as understanding dawned. "September 19th? Wasn't that—"

"Yesterday," Wells nodded. Biting his lower lip, he was on the verge of tears. "I hate my life."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 ** _Nine_**

Bucky was rocked gently awake to the quiet hum of a motor. He yawned and sat up, working the crick out of his neck, rolling his shoulders to loosen his stiff muscles. The car's headlights pierced the darkness of the outside world, but the view was one of a crumbling road encroached by wild vegetation.

"You're a terrible navigator," Wells accused.

Guilt stabbed its fingers into his gut. He reached down to his feet, picking up the map that had slid from his knee, trying to straighten it out and figure out exactly where they were. After a couple of seconds, he turned it the right way up.

"Sorry. You should'a woken me!"

Wells' face was all in shadow, the only source of illumination the headlights on the road behind them, but Bucky thought he saw a smile tug at his friend's lips.

"You seemed to need the sleep. Besides, whilst you were unconscious I consulted you about the matter of going AWOL, and you agreed it was a fine idea."

"So… where are we heading?"

"Genoa. It's on the coast. That means beaches. The city will be filled with exotic drinks and exotic women. They'll be sun-kissed. The dames, I mean, not the drinks."

"Sounds nice."

"I've thought it all through," Wells said, as he fixed his eyes on the dark road ahead. "We'll stay in Genoa for a month or two, live the ritzy life. When we get bored of that we'll stow away aboard a ship heading somewhere far and warm, some place that never even heard of the word 'war.' We'll jump ship at the first tropical paradise island we find, and spend our days farming on our coconut plantation. We'll make moonshine out of our coconut harvests, and be the envy of potato-peasants everywhere.

"Once we've cornered the market on coconut moonshine, we'll hail some passing merchant vessel and sell what we have for millions of dollars. We'll be rich. Richer than Stark. Then we'll come home when the war's over, and everyone will praise us as heroes for introducing them to coconut moonshine. And we'll live happily ever after."

Bucky smiled at the image of himself farming _anything_. "It's a fine plan."

The car turned off the main road and onto a narrow dirt track. Bucky was bounced and jostled as the vehicle humped its way over stones and dipped down into holes. He hoped Genoa's roads would be more comfortable.

When they reached a small, dark farmhouse, Wells pulled up beside it and switched off the engine as he grabbed his M1 and hopped out. The two other vehicles in their convoy joined them.

With a final yawn, Bucky grabbed his own rifle and opened the passenger door. His legs felt like jelly after their six-hour journey, and he kicked them out in turn, working feeling back into his numb feet.

"What do we do now, Sarge?" Hawkins asked. He and Franklin had joined Bucky and Wells. In the third vehicle, Hodge kept the engine running.

"Now, we wait."

To entertain themselves while they waited, they took it in turn peering into the blacked out windows of the farmhouse. Inside was old furniture, some of it covered by dust sheets. It seemed abandoned, but Bucky had learnt after meeting Steve Rogers that appearances could be deceiving.

They didn't have long to wait. Their nerves were on edge, and they heard the approaching men before they saw them. The newcomers were dressed as civilians, their weapons a mismatch of rifles and pistols and shotguns, no two the same. They stepped out from a field of tall crops, their guns held low, ready to be brought into play if they were needed.

Half a dozen paces apart, the two groups stopped and faced each other.

"We heard there's something of a demand for ex-Nazi vehicles around here," Bucky said.

The leader of the group stepped forward. His bushy moustache reminded Bucky of Sergeant Murphy, of the Screaming Eagles.

"We will put the automobiles to good use," the man replied in a lilting Italian accent.

"What exactly are you gonna be using them for?" asked Wells.

"If your superiors believed you needed to know that, signore, they would already have told you."

And that was the end of the conversation. Two of the men climbed into one of the cars, and three into the other. They set off on another dirt track and within a minute their headlights were out of sight.

Bucky watched them go, then signalled the team to get into the jeep. As soon as they were all aboard, Hodge reversed around, then drove up the torturous dirt track, back to the main road.

"Did they even say thanks?" Hodge asked, once they were back on a more solid surface.

"Nope," Franklin said gloomily.

"Hmph. They should'a been more grateful. It's not like they were capable of getting themselves a couple of Nazi cars, was it? Otherwise they would'a done it already."

"Keep your focus on the road, Hodge," Bucky warned. "These Italian roads are a mess."

"Fine, whatever. But somebody needs to direct me. Which way do I go?"

"Second star to the right and straight on till morning," Bucky grinned, as a childhood memory of _Peter and Wendy_ came crashing back into his head.

Hodge's brow lowered into a perplexed frown. "Huh?"

"Just follow signs for Genoa," said Wells. "And don't stop going until you see the Med."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 ** _Ten_**

From their elevated position in the central Alps, they'd watched the night sky over Como explode for hours. U.S. planes dodged German flak. The distant roar of artillery fire reached them only as a dull, barely audible rumble of thunder. Part of Bucky hated that he was reduced to the role of helpless observer, but part of him sure was glad he wasn't up there in one of those bombers, taking flak from AA guns.

In the early hours of the morning, the thunder stopped. Smoke clouds drifted up from the city, the horizon burned orange and red, but it would be another couple of days before the SSR would find out which side now held Como.

"That was some firework show," Wells said at last. He, like a half dozen other members of the 107th, was propped up in his sleeping roll outside the regiment's tent.

"I hope our boys took the city," said Franklin.

Bucky looked down at the orange glow of still-raging fires. "I hope there's a city _left_."

They watched in silence as the city burned. The bombers must'a hit munitions stores. That was the only explanation for how and why the fires raged so long.

Suddenly, a bright flash of white light seared itself across his vision as something went hurtling across the night sky. The after-image played out across his eyes, splitting the sky cleanly in two, over and over again. Excitement tingled inside his chest; he'd never seen a falling star before.

"Did anyone else see that?" he asked.

"Sure did," said Gusty. "Hope you made a wish, Sarge."

"I didn't," he said, his heart sinking. He'd been so excited to see his first shooting star that he'd completely forgotten you were supposed to wish on them. "What did you wish for, Gusty?"

"An end to the war, of course."

"I wished for an end to the war with us on the winning side," Mex added.

"Davies?"

"More productive chickens."

"That's so stupid," Franklin scoffed.

"Then what'd _you_ wish for, Mr. Smartypants McWiseguy?" Davies shot back.

"An endless supply chain of coffee, of course. How are we gonna win this war if we run out of coffee? Mark my words, it won't be bombers or falling stars that'll get us home, it'll be good old fashioned American joe."

"Hodge," said Bucky, before the pair of Pfcs. could starts a _Chickens vs. Coffee_ debate, "what'd you wish for?"

"Oh, err, nothing important." Hodge fidgeted in his blanket, clearly uncomfortable. Unfortunately for him, everyone else saw his discomfort.

"Don't be a sissy," Gusty judged harshly. "Davies shared with us his desire for more productive chickens, and Franklin told us of his wish for more caffeine. Now, fess up."

"Fine," Hodge grumbled. His face was a mask of defensive scowls, daring anybody to tell him his wish was stupid. "I wished that I'd get to be the one to put a bullet in Hitler's head."

"Why? Revenge for all those Jews he killed?"

"No. The guy who kills Hitler, he's gonna be famous. Rich. A hero. They'll make moving pictures about him. Probably build a statue of him. And my ol' mom would be real proud if they built a statue of me."

"At least that's not as stupid as chickens," Franklin smirked. "What about you, Sarge?" he asked of Wells.

"I wished on one star for another star."

"Rita Hayworth," everyone gathered said by rote.

"You're a creature of habit, Wells," Bucky grinned.

"Truer words were never spoken," Wells agreed. "What'd you wish for, Tex?"

"Nuthin'."

"Did you forget, like Barnes?" Gusty asked him.

"Naw, Ah don't need anything right now."

"You could'a wished for a million bucks!" Hodge complained. "Even if you don't want it, you could'a given it to us!"

"Ah'll wish for that next time, then," Tex grinned.

Once the excitement of the falling star had passed, they sat in silence whilst down below them Como burned.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 ** _Eleven_**

The air smelt of smoke and blood and death. Crouched in the ruinous skeleton of a bombed-out house, Bucky longed for the good old days of assaulting HYDRA bunkers to the scent of pine. At the time, it had felt like rough work. Looking back, it had been a warm up.

"Where the hell are the 69th?" Hodge grumbled as he reloaded his M1.

Bucky didn't pay Hodge much attention. His focus was on the dirty, rubble-strewn street that he and two-dozen members of the 107th had been told to hold at all costs. The 69th were sweeping in from the east, pushing the Nazis before them. Phillips had hoped the Krauts would surrender what was left of Como without putting up much of a fight. So far, they hadn't surrendered even a stone.

Bodies littered the ground. Italians caught in the bombing. Germans who'd tried to hold their position. Members of the 107th who'd given their lives so that the rest of the team could establish a foothold in the bombed-out house. Bucky kept his eyes away from the bodies, so that he didn't see them, but he couldn't help but be aware of them. Both sides were fighting over a graveyard.

"They'll be here," he said, more to himself than to Hodge. Out on the street, he saw movement. Three Nazis tried to make for better cover. Bucky dropped the first. The second fell to Gusty's gun, and the third almost made it to the safety of an overturned wagon before a quiet _crack!_ signalled a shot fired by Tex's SSR-01. The soldier was dead before he hit the street.

"Their timing is shit," Wells pointed out. "They were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. We're gonna be in trouble if the Krauts try for another push against us."

Bucky nodded. "We have our orders."

"And what if the 69th are all dead?" Hawkins asked. His young face was lined with two days' worth of grime, and his eyes held a harrowed look that Bucky was seeing more and more as the days passed by.

He looked back to the street, his own eyes weary, gritty with tiredness. "We have our orders. We hold this position, for as long as it takes."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _Twelve_

A gunshot sounded like a clap of thunder. It tore men from their sleep and set hearts racing. Bucky's eyes were open even before his mind was awake, and he joined the rest of the regiment stumbling out of their beds as they reached for their uniforms and weapons.

His thoughts finally caught up with his body. How could the camp be under attack? They were nestled safely in the Alps, far from the front line, and the sentries ought to be keeping a close watch.

Grabbing his M1, he stepped out of the tent and into bedlam. Soldiers were milling in various states of dress, each of them carrying his gun. Officers were calling out instructions, calling out for sitreps, trying to organise men into defensive positions against an enemy they couldn't see or hear.

There was no second shot. Bucky stayed closed to the 107th's tent as he waited for orders. Gusty and Wells waited with him, whilst inside the tent the rest of the men sat on their bunks with their rifles across their knees, each of them a bundle of pent-up nervousness.

Finally, an order came. _Stand down. False alarm._

The order was passed from officer to officer until it reached the 107th's tent. _False alarm?_ But who had fired the shot, and why? Had the men in the foxholes been jumpy? Fired at shadows, or wildlife? And where were the colonels? Why weren't Phillips or Hawkswell here to tell the troops to go back to their beds?

"I'm gonna find out what's happened," Bucky said. "I'll be back shortly. Tell the men they can go back to sleep."

As he made his way through the camp, the grumbles of exhausted enlisted men reached his ears. They were gonna have sharp words with the jerk who'd woken them, some suggested. Others were stripping off for bed even before they'd re-entered their regimental tents.

It took ten minutes to find the colonels, and when he did, he couldn't get near. They were just outside the 9th's tent, and a crowd of men was clustered around them. Agent Carter was there, as well as Howard Stark. Their gazes were downcast as they stared at something on the ground. On the outskirts of the group, Bucky spotted a familiar figure standing on his tiptoes to see over the crowd.

"What's happening, Dugan?" he asked.

The big man lowered his feet and pulled off his hat, holding it with both hands against his chest. With a sad shake of his head, he replied with only two words.

"Private Denning."

Dugan left, and Bucky took his place. Stood on his tiptoes. Peered over the crowd. Just inside the 9th's tent, two medics were zipping up a body bag. His blood ran cold when his eyes fell on the face of the dead young man; it was bloody, one side ruined by something that had gone through his temple at speed. Nearby on the groundsheet was a pistol, and the gun's barrel and grip were also flecked with blood.

 _Private Denning._

Bucky had seen the young private from time to time in the mess hall. He never smiled. Never laughed. Rarely spoke, except to answer questions. His eyes saw nothing closer than a thousand yards, but unlike Hawkins and Gusty and the rest of the 107th's who'd been there and come through the emotional turmoil, Private Denning's eyes had never lost that stare.

The fighting in Africa had been hard, and the 9th had been in the thick of it, or so Bucky had heard. En route to England for much-needed R&R, their ship had been torpedoed, almost all hands lost. Stranded in France, they'd lived on the edge of their nerves until the SSR had arrived and swallowed them up. Now they'd been thrust back into combat, and Bucky could only imagine how lost and distraught Private Denning must have felt over everything he'd gone through.

In silence, he left the tent. How long would it be until the rest of the men started to stare like Denning? To sit in silence while eating their meals, unable to find even a single smile for themselves or each other?

He didn't want to think about the men in the 107th gettin' desperate enough to put a gun to their own heads, but he had to face facts; the Nazis and their allies were not the only enemies in this war. Some enemies could not be fought with guns and tanks and bombs. Some could not even be seen. They lurked inside, germinating in the dark like those mushroom spores of Davies'. How could Bucky possibly protect the men he knew and cared about from the enemies within their own minds?

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 ** _Thirteen_**

They saw the wings before they saw the body. One had been torn off during the violent descent, the other blasted off by flak. The first one was in pieces scattered over a wide swath of ground, leading the way to the fuselage like a breadcrumb trail through the forest.

Bucky halted, one fist raised, as his eyes picked up the burned wreckage of the plane. For long moments, he waited, heart a steady staccato in his chest as he searched for signs of movement. Signs of life. There were none.

"Gusty," Bucky said, without taking his eyes off the fuselage. "You'll organise grave detail. Hodge, keep an eye on the medics. Leave tags on until everyone is accounted for. And let's try to do this as quick as we can; I don't wanna be here at nightfall. No doubt the Krauts saw the plane go down, too."

The men scrambled to obey. It had been a tough hike across rough terrain, and they'd gone without knowing precisely where the B-17 had crash-landed after the aerial battle over Como. Hawkswell had already told them not to expect any survivors, but Bucky liked to hope for the best.

He set Davies and Hawkins to keep watch, and joined the rest of the team at the ruined fuselage. The once-green exterior of the plane was now grey and black with char; fuel tank must've exploded. How else could metal burn so hotly? The paint had peeled away entirely and only two small windows were unbroken. As he dug through the still-warm carcass, he struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. The floor was hard to walk on, the seats and cargo nets hanging at odd angles. When he realised the plane was _upside down_ , it made more sense.

"Hold!" Hawkins called from outside the fuselage, his voice tense. Bucky grabbed his M1 and joined him. A man was standing nearby, both hands held up to show he was unarmed. His face was smeared liberally with black soot, his eyes disbelieving as he looked at the men swarming over the downed plane. He wore the flight suit of a U.S. bomber crew, and tears spilled unchecked down his dirty cheeks.

"Who are you?" Bucky asked, though he managed to keep the defensive bite out of his voice.

"Captain Short, USAF," the man replied by rote.

"I'm Sergeant Barnes, 107th Infantry. When your plane went down, we were sent to recover anybody who survived," Bucky told him. "Are you alone?"

The captain shook his head. "Our navigator, Lieutenant Humphrey, he made it, too. He's in a bad way. You gotta help him!"

"Doctor Peacock!" Bucky shouted. The man appeared from the fuselage. "We've got a wounded crewman nearby." Turning back to Short, he said, "Take us to him."

Captain Short turned and led them away from the fuselage. As he strode along, slowly regaining some of his composure, he gave them a report of what had happened. Bucky didn't need the report, but he guessed it was something the man felt he had to give. A thread of normalcy after the horror of being shot down. The lifeline he needed to keep him going.

"We'd just completed our bombing run when we took heavy flak. I was in the nose cone—I'm the bombardier—and I tried to direct the pilot out of the worst of it, but it was everywhere. It was like the sky itself was exploding all around us. When the plane began to dive, I managed to drag myself out of the cone along the crawlway, and when I got to the cockpit I found the pilot dead. Our co-pilot was injured, but he managed to pull us out of the dive. That crazy sonofabitch somehow got us through the flak, but we'd taken too much damage. Engines two and four were ruined. Engine three wasn't doing too good, either.

"Everything was so dark, we couldn't see a damn thing. I knew the co-pilot was trying to put us down somewhere before he lost consciousness, but I don't think he was really aware of what he was doing, or where we were going. We took more flak, not bad, but bad enough to add to the damage we'd already taken. Don't know how the wing started to come apart, but it did. By that time he'd brought us in low… too low. We hit something. Felt like a mountain. Next thing I knew, the plane was spinning out of control and the ground was rising up to meet us. We lost the tail gunner on the way down; he went out one of the holes where the wings had been."

The man paused, his sooty face creasing into a mask of pain.

"What about the fire?" Bucky asked, to keep his mind active.

"We started burning during the fall. How the co-pilot got us down in mostly one piece I'll never know, but as soon as we hit I pulled out as many men as I could and dragged them clear. The co-pilot was killed on impact… he gave his last breath making sure the rest of us had a chance. Most of the men were dead. Humphrey was alive, and our radio operator, Croft, he was, too. But Croft's injuries were too severe, he was too badly burned. He went into shock and I couldn't help him.

"I managed to drag Humphrey away from the wreckage, and we holed up in a small cave I found. That was the day before yesterday, and he's been going slowly downhill since."

"What are the nature of his injuries?" Doctor Peacock spoke up. He was puffing and panting as he kept pace with the soldiers, his large aid kit strapped to his back. One of the nurses—Nurse Arnold, Bucky thought—followed mutely behind.

"You can see for yourself," said Captain Short. He stopped and gestured to a triangular-shaped hole in a layer of bedrock that had been tilted on a sharp diagonal. Dr. Peacock and Nurse Arnold hurried forward, and Bucky followed them.

A second man was slumped against the cave wall, his face grey, his flight suit singed and bloodstained. Bucky's stomach turned when he saw the jagged metal spike protruding from the man's torso.

"I didn't wanna take the shrapnel out," Short explained. "The wound bled a lot, but the metal seemed to stem the worst of it."

Doc Peacock worked quickly. He crouched down beside the fallen man, one hand on his uninjured shoulder, squeezing gently and repeating the man's name until Humphrey's eyes flickered open.

"Wha'?" the lieutenant asked.

Captain Short knelt down beside him. "Lieutenant, we're gonna make it," he said, his voice cracking as the words came out. "These men are from the army. They came to find us. To bring us home."

It was hard to tell what colour Humphrey's eyes were in the darkness of the cave, but those eyes widened, and he reached out with his good arm to grab the lapel of Dr. Peacock's olive drab medical jacket. Bucky tightened his grip on his rifle, but when the lieutenant didn't make any violent gesture, he relaxed.

"Como," Humphrey gasped in a raw, hoarse voice. "Did we take it? Was it worth it?"

Captain Short looked up to Bucky, the same question on his face.

"We took it," Bucky confirmed. "Not easily, but we took it. It was worth it."

The injured man let go of Dr. Peacock, and a small, grim smile planted itself on his lips. "I'm glad. Captain, will you tell my wife—"

"You can tell her yourself," Short interrupted. The scene was so reminiscent of Bucky's last moments with Carrot that it made his heart ache inside his chest. "You can patch him up, right, Doc?"

Dr. Peacock had not been idle during the exchange. His had his stethoscope out and was listening to the noises coming from the lieutenant's chest. He lowered the scope, and stood.

"We'll give the two of you a moment alone," he said sadly. And then, to Humphrey, "I'm sorry."

Bucky and Nurse Arnold followed Dr. Peacock out of the cave. They stopped a short distance away, far enough that they couldn't overhear whatever Lieutenant Humphrey wanted Captain Short to tell his wife.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 ** _Fourteen_**

Bucky hauled himself out of his mud-trap of a foxhole, and his replacement climbed in. Water poured liberally down his waterproof poncho, washing down over his boots, clearing away some of the cloying mud caked there. He held his rifle close to his body, trying his best to keep it out of the rain. Six hours in a waterlogged foxhole, and he wasn't sure his weapon even worked anymore.

The rain persisted in a heavy patter as he made his way downhill to where the bulk of the company were resting up. The hard ground made camping difficult. Here and there, a few pup tents had been erected, but mostly it was too difficult to drive pegs for guy lines into the bare, rocky ground.

Sparse stands of trees were their roof for the night. He stumbled along, bone-cold and bone-weary, glancing at the faces peeping out from over damp blankets as men tried to find their way to sleep. His mind felt as slow and sluggish as the muscles of his legs, and his eyes were gritty with exhaustion. The rain hadn't stopped in three days, and in the Alps, it fell _cold._

At last he located the stand of trees where the 107th were taking shelter, and spotted a few familiar faces amongst them. They were almost as damp and dirty as he. Wearily he trudged, water trickling down his back. His boots were so sodden that his feet were numb. If he still had toes, he couldn't feel them, which was almost a relief. His boots had been rubbing so badly over the past couple of days that he'd had to go to the hospital every morning to have his burst blisters dressed.

His comrades were squashed together in long rows of men. The ground, too hard for pegs, was their bare mattress, and they'd pulled their sleeping rolls over themselves to trap heat, and covered them with ponchos to provide meagre, barely-effective protection from the rain.

Bucky saw a larger mound and made his way instinctively towards it. Biggs was curled up as much as his huge body would allow, and had his face tucked down into his blanket. Behind him, Wells was nestled in his own blankets, and there was just enough space between them for another body.

He pulled off his waterproof poncho and grabbed his sleeping roll from his haversack. Quickly, he dumped his bag, crawled beneath the bedrolls of Biggs and Wells, pulled his own roll into the line of overlapping blankets which covered the men, and then added his poncho over the top. Still damp, he placed his M1 behind him, then shuffled backwards a little, closer to the mountain of Biggs. Wells stirred from sleep and opened tired-looking eyes only for long enough to check who'd just crawled into the line, then let his lids fall back down with a heavy sigh.

Bucky shivered, a fast, jaw-chattering shiver like the kind he used to get as a kid after spending a day playing in the snow and slush on the streets of Brooklyn. The warmth from Biggs' back was stealing over him, but slowly. Though the rain no longer touched him, apart from an occasional drip, his damp clothes chilled him, and his shaking kept him from sleep. _Be glad you_ _'re not here, Steve,_ he thought to his absent friend.

To try and speed up the warming process, he shuffled further back, so that he was right up against Biggs; a dangerous place to be, if the big man rolled. A moment later, Wells shuffled closer too, and finally Bucky found enough warmth to stop shivering. He sank into an uneasy, dream-filled sleep of being back home in front of a crackling fire.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 ** _Fifteen_**

"I wish you wouldn't grin like that," Franklin sulked at Gusty. Bucky glanced up from his book— _A Tale of Two Cities_ —and saw the stupid grin on Gusty's face. That grin could mean only one thing: he'd just seen Audrey. "It fills me with regret over the girl I should'a snapped up back home before being shipped out."

Gusty sank onto his bed, completely unapologetic about his grin. "So why didn't you?"

"She had a deal-breaker."

The grin morphed into a puzzled frown. "Deal breaker?"

"Yeah, you know. A flaw so bad or annoying that it completely broke the deal?" When Gusty didn't nod along, Franklin looked around the rest of the men for backup. "C'mon guys, you know what I'm talking about, right? Like, this dame, she had a lazy left eye. Never could figure out what she was looking at. It freaked me out. Of course, at the time, I thought I'd get over here and find myself knee deep in beautiful European girls, so it didn't matter. If I'd known I'd only be knee deep in mud, I might'a overlooked the lazy eye. It's not that big a deal if the lights are out, I guess."

"You're a true gentleman, Franklin," Gusty scoffed.

"Don't pretend to be all high and mighty, Gusty. I bet if Nurse Klein had some glaring flaw, you wouldn't look twice at her. For example, what if she had a huge, hairy mole on the side of her nose, or halitosis? Or… what if she was Jewish?"

"I'd love her just as much," the corporal said stiffly.

Franklin gave up on Gusty and turned his focus to the men resting up in their beds. Most had books or were writing letters, but Franklin's amusing complaint now had their attention.

"C'mon, there must be _something_ that puts the rest of you right off a dame."

"Sure," Mex shrugged. "A penchant for cannibalism would put me off a dame."

"Hairy knuckles," said Hodge. He gave an involuntary shudder. "God, just the thought of it creeps me out."

"Bad teeth," said Wells. "Nothing kills the mood like a beautiful dame who opens her mouth and shows stained, crooked teeth."

"What about deal-makers?" Bucky spoke up. For him, it was confidence. He thought he might not even mind a dame with hairy knuckles or a lazy eye, as long as she was confident about it.

"Easy," said Wells. "Sense of humour. If a dame laughs at my jokes, I know I'm onto a winner."

"Pins that go on forever," Franklin said, rubbing his hands together.

"Rouged lips," Hodge grinned. "Drives me wild."

"You guys are shallow," Gusty scoffed.

"It's called 'having standards'" Franklin countered.

"No, it's called 'being shallow.' I hope you all fall in love with hairy, lazy-eyed, buck-teethed dames with amazing personalities, then you can eat your own words."

Bucky grinned as he imagined those wedding photos. Hodge's wife, her knuckles hairier than her husband's. Wells' wife, her teeth like broken grey stones in her mouth. Franklin's wife, with one—or even both—eyes lazy. And for the first time since crossing into Italy, he laughed out loud.


	54. Sins of Mine

_Author_ _'s Note: Many thanks to you lovely readers for your condolences/well-wishes. The story progress is now back on schedule, so I'm happy to release the next chapter! Those of you who've read_ Running To You _may find one of these scenes very familiar. Cue the ominous music._

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _54\. Sins of Mine_

"Planes!"

The alarm came loud and clear, shouted back by the men sent ahead to scout, passed from person to person like a ripple echoing down the line. Bucky didn't need to shout orders at his men; nobody had to shout orders. Fast as they could manage, the troops fled with the gear they were carrying, legs racing and lungs panting as they climbed uphill, to the shelter of the nearby trees.

Meanwhile, the men closest to the tanks and jeeps unfolded olive-drab tarpaulins and threw them roughly over the vehicles. The tank crews didn't have time to leave their positions; they would have to sit tight and trust to the shoddy camouflage.

As soon as he reached the trees, Bucky dropped his handhold on the heavy canvas tent and let it fall to the ground. He sank down behind it as men continued pouring into the area, pressing themselves under whatever cover they could find. The sound of engines reached his ears, and Bucky held his breath. He was too deep in the woods to see the planes overhead this time, but he could picture them in his mind's eye, a swarm of menacing raptors ready to rain down death and destruction. The SSR had been caught out three days ago, losing a tank and almost all of their howitzers to an opportunistic flight of enemy _Stuka_ who'd spotted the gleam of sunlight on metal below.

"Do you think they're ours, or theirs?" Hawkins asked.

Bucky didn't dare exhale to reply. He knew it was stupid, that holding his breath wouldn't make him any less visible to the eyes in the sky, but he couldn't help it.

"I think at this point, it doesn't matter," said Gusty. "I bet our own guys are just as likely to bomb us believing we're the enemy."

"They might not even be bombers," said Mex. "They might be fighters. We might be okay. They can't make a strafing run so close to these trees."

Bucky held on to that thought as the droning of engines at altitude grew louder. He guessed the planes to be almost directly overhead, and had to fight the urge to duck down closer to the ground. The intermittent forests he'd previously cursed for slowing their progress through the Alps and making their marches more difficult, he now sent prayers of thanks for. Time and time again, they had fled to the safety of the trees when the sky-watching scouts reported planes approaching. This was the second time today, and it was only going to get worse the closer they got to Austria.

The trees were a beautiful illusion. They had no true power to keep the men safe. If enemy bombers—or hell, even friendly bombers—decide to drop their eggs on the forest sheltering the SSR, those gathered beneath the evergreen branches would die just as swiftly as if they'd been in a city or out in the open. But the brass were banking on the assumption that bombers wouldn't waste their payloads on a forest, not unless they had confirmed intel that a significant enemy force was sheltered there. So far, either the brass had been right, or the SSR hadn't been seen.

The planes passed without incident, and Bucky finally breathed deeply. His hands shook. Nerves frayed. Enemy ground-forces were bad enough. The prospect of land mines was bad enough. Now they had to contend with death from above, and planes could travel much faster than men and tanks. It hadn't escaped Bucky's notice that the route Hawkswell took them on through the Alps was never more than a stone's throw away from significant arboreal cover.

"How much more of this are we gonna have to take?" Hodge complained as the order came back to resume the march.

"Consider it an incentive," Bucky told him. "The faster we win the war, the sooner we have to stop worrying about being bombed by the _Luftwaffe_.

"D'ya think if we take Italy, Germany might surrender?" asked Franklin.

"I hope so." Something told him it would take more than losing Italy to make the Nazis surrender, but it never hurt to have hope. For as long as they had hope, they had a chance.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

They stopped an hour before nightfall, which was odd; the colonels liked to keep them marching until the last scrap of light faded from the sky. They'd tried marching in darkness as a defence against aerial assault, but had given it up as too hazardous after several servicemen were almost lost to falls and landslides.

Most of the 107th sank wearily down when they came to a halt, but Bucky remained on his feet. No orders had come to set up camp—not that they could set up much of a camp to speak of. The valleys were too narrow and the ground too rocky to allow the larger tents to be erected. Some of the troops slept in pup tents, but there weren't enough to go around. Over half of the soldiers ended up sleeping beneath the open sky each time they stopped for the night.

"I'm gonna go find out what's happening," he told the rest of the men. "We don't usually get to stop this early in the day."

Finding out what was happening wasn't as easy as he'd imagined. First he had to run an obstacle course of men and equipment, bodies and bags strewn over every inch of dry, solid ground. He muttered apologies as he accidentally kicked men too tired or complacent to move, and almost broke his damn neck tripping over a bag someone had rudely left in the middle of an obvious path through the chaos.

"Mind that bag with your clumsy feet," Stark warned, popping out of nowhere. "Its contents are both highly fragile and devastatingly volatile."

"Then maybe you shouldn't have left it in the middle of the path." Bucky tossed the bag at Stark. The expression of fright on the inventor's face as he caught it on its downward curve was enough to make Bucky regret throwing it in the first instance. Sometimes, it was hard to tell when Stark was bullshitting.

He couldn't find the colonels, but Agent Carter was hovering near a dark, rectangular hole that led into the side of the mountain they'd been skirting for the past half hour. When she saw him approach, she donned a mask of practised patience.

"Agent Carter, why've we stopped so early?" he asked before she could offer some snippy rebuttal in advance of his question.

"We discovered this abandoned mine," Carter said, gesturing to the ominously black hole, "and the colonels wanted to assess its suitability as a place to stay tonight. Perhaps even to launch future excursions from."

He shot the hole a rather dubious glance. "The colonels went _in there_?"

"With a team of engineers."

"Oh, well, if they're with engineers, I'm sure nothing could possibly go wrong."

One dark, elegant eyebrow rose in faux surprise. "Sarcasm does not become you, Sergeant. I suggest you return to your comrades and await the colonels' decision."

He didn't have many options. He still wasn't sure if Carter outranked him—she'd _suggested_ he go back, not _ordered_ it—and he wasn't willing to put that question to rest. Not over something as trivial as this. He gave her a mock salute that Wells would've been proud of, and returned to the regiment.

Half an hour later, they got their orders. The engineers had assessed the integrity of the mines and deemed them safe enough to shelter in for the night. The vehicles were to be left under the cover of tarps beneath the shelter of the trees, and all personnel were to take refuge underground. The prospect of sleeping in a cold, dark cave did not appeal to Bucky, but the prospect of being safe from German planes _did_.

"C'mon you lot," he said, chivvying them to their tired feet. "The sooner we're underground, the sooner we can relax."

Wells eyed the departing tanks with a sort of wistful longing. "Y'think the brass will let me bunk with the tank crews?"

"Why would you even want to? I heard the insides of those things smell pretty ripe. Don't you wanna be safe from the _Luftwaffe_ for a night?"

The very idea seemed to disagree with Wells. He wrinkled his nose in disgust as he launched into an explanation. "I have a dream, and in that dream, I die at a ripe old age, probably in some sort of aviation accident. Maybe the fuel tank ignites in mid-air, or maybe there's a crash-landing… doesn't really matter. Point is, the death I have envisioned for myself takes place somewhere with a decent view, such as the open skies. My death does not involve getting crushed by a hundred thousand million tons of mountain."

"A hundred thousand million isn't even a number," Hodge scoffed. He glanced around the rest of the group. "Is it?"

"The engineers say it's safe," Bucky told Wells.

"Oh, well, if the _engineers_ say it's safe, I'm sure nothing could possibly go wrong," said Wells, accompanied by a roll of his blue eyes.

Bucky punched him sharply on the arm for being a jerk. "Come on, let's get moving. I bet you'll feel much better after a good night's sleep."

Wells grumbled quietly to himself, but he complied. The rest of the men followed with less grumbling as they piled their heavy equipment outside the mine and covered it with one side of the large regimental tent. Oil lamps were brought out and lit using Zippos, and Stark passed around a few hand-crank flashlights. As their group approached the mine entrance, the men clustered around him, and he realised they weren't any happier about the prospect of being under a mountain than he was. Still, he couldn't let their spirits sink any lower.

"Anybody read _The Hobbit_?" he asked them.

"What, that kids' book about fairies and dragons?" Wells scoffed. "Too advanced for me; I'm still trying to get through _The Little Engine That Could_."

"If you continue being an ass, I'm not gonna let you in to our regiment's Thanksgiving-in-Venice party," he warned.

"Fine. I'll have my own party, with gambling, and women of questionable integrity."

Their voices fell to whispers as they walked down the cold stone passage. Shadows pooled around them, moving with them as the lamps were carried deeper into the tunnels. When Bucky reached out to run his hand along the wall hewn from rock, the surface was rough and cold to his touch. It was still preferable to being bombed by the _Luftwaffe_.

"I think we should have a canary," Franklin whispered. "Isn't that what miners use to make sure there aren't any poisonous gases in mines?"

"I think we _are_ the canaries," Wells said bitterly.

"Hey Sarge," Gusty said to Bucky, "do you know anything about mining?"

"No, why? Do you?"

"No, but I wondered what kind of mine this was. Maybe if it was a gem mine, I might find a left over jewel or something. Or, you know, an interesting fossil. For Audrey."

"You'd give your girl a fossil?" asked Wells.

"Sure, if I can't find a gem. I mean, fossils are unique and pretty rare, right? Audrey likes that sort of thing."

"You're a lucky man, Gusty. I wish I had a dame who'd be happy getting a bit of a dead thing calcified in rock. Somehow, I always manage to pick the demanding, high-maintenance ones."

"I really can't tell whether your thanks is sincere or sarcastic," Gusty sniffed, "so I'm gonna choose to believe it's the former."

"We'll keep our eyes open for gems or fossils," Bucky assured him.

"Somebody let me know if you see a diamond," said Wells. "It'll make my proposal to Rita all the sweeter if I can tell her the rock in her ring was handpicked by me."

They came to a branching of four tunnels and found one of the engineers waiting there, clipboard in hand. He glanced up as they approached and consulted the scribbles on his paper.

"107th Infantry? A quarter of you down the left tunnel with Captain Banks' group, a quarter of you in the right tunnel with Colonel Phillips, and two quarters in the centre tunnels with Colonel Hawkswell and Major Smith."

"We're being split up?" Bucky asked.

The lieutenant nodded. "Colonels' orders."

"Of course they gotta split us up." Wells said, his tone gloating. "Remember what Weiss told us about eggs and baskets? This way, they can't lose all their infantry at once in the event of a cave-in."

Those close enough to hear began looking worriedly around at the tunnel walls, and Bucky sent Wells a mental kick.

"We've identified alternative routes out of the mountain," the engineer continued, "but nothing as wide as the passage we came down."

"Alright, Gusty, you take a group and shack up with Banks' lot. Biggs, Tex, ditto for the right and centre-right tunnels. Wells"—images of his fellow sergeant spending the whole night telling the men in his group the odds of being crushed to death in a cave in ran through his mind—"we'll take a group down the centre-left tunnel." That way he could keep an eye on his friend and stamp down on any bullshit before it could chip away at the men's morale. "Davies, take the remainder of the regiment down the centre-right."

Down the centre-left tunnel, Bucky found groups from various different branches making up their beds on the hard rock floor. A few stoves had been brought out, and men were digging into their ration kits to pick out the choicest morsels. The tunnel opened out into a more spherical cave, which was only half full. His quarter of men quickly made themselves at home, bartering amongst themselves for the least rock-strewn spots. Before long, they too were cooking a communal meal of canned meat, beans and a medley of vegetables.

Over on his bedroll and blanket, Wells was reading his _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ book once again. By now the book had been read so many times that the spine was faded, the dog-eared pages curled with damp and dirt. Bucky had tried to get another copy through Gusty, but it seemed Wells had the only one in the entire company.

"When are you gonna let me read that book?" he asked his friend.

"How 'bout never? I've seen how ham-fisted you are with books."

"Bullshit."

"I'll bequeath it to you in my will."

"Can I at least read the summary on the back?"

"No."

Bucky eyed the book. Performed a quick mental calculation. Reached swiftly forward and made a grab, attempting to pluck it from his friend's hands… only, Wells was faster. He rolled back across his blanket and was up on his feet while Bucky's hand was still closing around thin air.

"Paws off my book, Barnes," Wells warned with a grin.

"C'mon, I just wanna know what it's about. Whether there's actually even a tree in it."

"Patience is a virtue."

"I don't wanna wait until you're dead before I get to read it; that's just macabre."

"Well, alright, I guess you can read it." He held the book out, but as soon as Bucky moved to take it, he snatched it back. "Heheh, I changed my mind."

"Wells, you bastard," he growled, leaping forward. "Gimme!"

Wells side-stepped, putting Mex and one of the stoves between Bucky and himself. "Tell you what, I'll let you read it if you can reach it." He stood on his tiptoes, holding the book high in the air; high enough that Bucky would have to jump if he wanted to grab it. But Bucky wasn't gonna jump for any damn book; that was just the sort of dirty trick he'd tormented his own younger brother with, when they'd been kids.

Instead of jumping, he aimed a swift but relatively gentle jab at Wells' solar plexus. Wells immediately doubled over to protect his ribs, and Bucky made another grab for the book. This time he managed to get a hand on it, but Wells used his doubled-over shoulder to push him back against the cave wall, knocking some of the air from his lungs. Their ensuing struggle for the book was watched by a very amused group of men, until Colonel Hawkswell appeared from behind and favoured them both with an unimpressed scowl.

"Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Wells, you can put that excess energy to good use tonight; you have guard duty at the head of the tunnel we came down."

Bucky let go of the book and straightened up to salute. Wells _didn_ _'t_ let go of the book as he saluted.

"Yessir," he agreed. So much for a good night's sleep.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

In the darkness of the tunnel, the tiny campfire didn't so much banish the shadows, as create them. They danced around the bare rock walls, their joyous saltation a mockery of Bucky's aching legs and still-blistered feet. Though he wasn't truly cold, he reached his hands down towards the flames, letting them linger for a moment. Next to him, Wells threw a small pebble at one of the shadows, catching it every time it bounced off the wall.

"How're your feet?" Wells asked at last.

"Sore."

"Should'a worn two pairs of socks."

"We can't all be smart-asses," Bucky replied tersely. Sometimes, Wells could be annoying as hell—especially when he knew he was right. "If I'd known when we broke camp this morning that we'd be travelling so far, I would'a worn two pairs."

"Always wear two pairs, just in case."

"Noted."

The forced march across the lower spine of the mountain range was tougher on the feet than the march across France had been. The one benefit they had was that the Germans didn't have much of a defence, this far north. Very likely, they thought nobody was crazy enough to march across the Alps. Clearly, they'd never met the U.S. brass.

"This time next week we'll be putting our feet up in Milan," said Wells.

Even in the dim light, Bucky could see the dark shadows beneath his friend's eyes. He suspected Wells was still kicking himself over Carrot and Pearson. Wells never talked about Pearson, and neither did Biggs, but at least the private had dropped the notion that he was a source of bad luck for the regiment.

"Dancing with Italian women, no doubt?" Bucky offered.

Wells merely pulled his face. "In Milan? No. Rome, maybe." He sighed, and flung the stone he'd been tossing into the fire, dislodging a bit of kindling which spluttered and hissed and made the shadows jump more violently. "What the hell are we doing here, Barnes?"

"You mean, why did I sign up? Or why are we being forced to march through the Alps? You know the answer to the second one as much as I do."

"No, not that. I mean here, in this tunnel."

"We picked the short straw. Or the colonel hates us." When his quip failed to elicit a smile, his concern for his friend increased. "You know what we're doing; we're on guard duty."

"Yeah, protecting the rest of the troops in the mine from the rampaging Kraut horde, just the two of us." Wells rolled his eyes. "There's no Germans here. They couldn't even see our fire, unless they were right on top of us."

Bucky shrugged. "Colonel wants someone to keep watch, and that someone is us. If you've got a problem with it, you might wanna take it up with him."

"I'll write him a strongly worded letter." Wells threw himself onto the floor beside the fire, laying belly-down so he could watch the flames dance. His rifle was seemingly forgotten behind him. Bucky knew that if any of the officers came up to check on them, they'd be all over Wells for his lack of discipline and vigilance… but he couldn't bring himself to tell his friend to sit up and be prepared to fire at the non-existent German horde. Besides, he could keep watch for the both of them.

"Speaking about letters—"

"Don't." Wells scowled at him, his blue eyes shadowed by his falling brows. "I don't wanna talk about letters."

"I was only gonna ask if you've sent any home yet."

"Yeah, well, don't."

"Alright."

Without warning, Wells pushed himself up, grabbed his gun and marched to the tunnel's exit.

"Where are you going?" Bucky asked him, his hand hovering over his own rifle.

"To water the trees. And I swear, if you follow me, I'll shoot you in the foot."

Bucky let his friend go. Regulations said no man was supposed to go anywhere alone, but right then, he really did believe Wells would shoot him in the foot if he tried to follow. Besides, it wasn't as if there was any danger here. And really, how long could Wells take?

He took ten minutes, and as each minute progressed, Bucky mentally kicked himself a half-dozen times for letting his friend go off alone regardless of the threat. When he was sure ten minutes had passed, he picked up his rifle and pushed his aching, complaining leg muscles into a standing position. For another minute he stood there tensing and flexing them, trying to work feeling back into his toes, then he set out on a limp to look for his friend before they could both be court-martialled for breaking regs.

Wells appeared from behind a tree trunk as soon as Bucky stepped out the tunnel, the moonlight making him easily visible. "Thought I warned you about following me? Can't a guy take a piss without a committee?"

"If it takes you this long, pal, you really should go see a medic, because there is something seriously wrong with you."

"Shy bladder," Wells shrugged, and pushed past him. "C'mon, back in the warren before someone comes to check we haven't been overrun by invisible Germans and discovers us gone."

Back in the tunnel, the shadows had grown smaller, so Bucky piled a few more pieces of wood on the fire and watched as the hungry flames accepted his offering of fuel. Now, if only it were so easy for the rest of the company to get food. Marching on cans and rations made everyone miserable.

He settled back down to sit beside the fire, and was glad when Wells did the same. The guy had been fidgety all night, like he just couldn't bring himself to sit still. Maybe now he'd relax a bit, give himself some rest.

"So," Wells said at last. "You got any more letters back from home yet?"

Bucky accepted the peace offering. "Yeah. A V-mail from my sister, Mary-Ann, a couple of days ago. It came in that supply drop we recovered." Supply drops were a pain, because the pilots always dropped them in the wrong places. Probably did it on purpose, just to screw with the ground forces. The 107th had been sent to recover the drop, and had found their supplies almost five miles out from the designated area. Luckily, they hadn't landed in the sort of swamp Dugan and Wells had endured during their previous recovery.

"She the one who's madly in love with me?"

"Only in your dreams," he snorted. "And my nightmares."

Finally, he got a grin out of Wells. It was just a small one, but it was a start. It didn't dispel the dark shadows beneath his blue eyes, but it did bring a little sparkle back to them.

"Is she pretty? Got any pictures?"

"Yes and no. And I'm not just saying that because I'm her brother." He smiled as his sister's face appeared in his mind. Sometimes it seemed every guy in Brooklyn wanted to ask Mary-Ann out to the theatre, or to the rides at Coney Island, or dancing at the music hall, but Bucky made sure to vet each and every one. Maybe that's why she and three of her friends had gone down to Baltimore at the first chance they got, to work in the new shipyard there, building the Liberty Fleet. In Baltimore, there was no-one to vet her choice of dance partner.

"I don't suppose she's the type to be swept off her feet by a darkly handsome black-Irish fella with a devil-may-care attitude and more brains than common sense?"

Bucky opened his mouth to say 'No,' but stopped himself. That actually sounded _exactly_ like the kinda guy Mary-Ann would be swept off her feet by. Of course, he could hardly tell Wells that.

"Sorry, pal, but she'd see through your act right away."

"Act? You wound me, Sergeant Barnes. I'm a hundred percent genuine."

"A hundred percent bullshit, more like," he scoffed. "Seriously, 'giant kraken monster'?"

Wells laughed, such a rare occurrence since Carrot's death that it sounded like a strange—but very welcome—piece of music. "Yeah, you got me there. Okay, so I'm about seventy percent genuine, thirty percent bullshit. Or I guess you can switch those around, sometimes." He glanced up, his eyes scanning the rocky ceiling. "Y'know, they think we're safe down here, but I bet these mines go back to Roman times, at least. One lucky bomb and the whole mountain will come down on our heads… cradle and all."

"Jeez, man, why've you always gotta make everything so macabre?"

Wells looked at him for a moment, his blue eyes thoughtful as he chewed on his lower lip. "I think you're the first person to ever ask me that."

"That's probably because you're about seventy percent bullshit."

"Well, yeah," Wells admitted. After a moment he put his gun aside and picked up another stone, turning it over and over in his fingers. "You ever go to church, Barnes?"

"Of course."

"Ever do confession?"

"Yeah." His mom had made him do it, every Sunday after Mass. Problem was, he'd been a pretty straight kid, and despite the occasional impure thought, he didn't really feel he had much to confess about. At thirteen, he'd started inventing reasons to confess, just to satisfy his mother's demand, but the priest had seen through his ruse pretty quickly. Of course, that had given him something real to confess to, but the priest had barred him from confession after that, telling him only to come back when he felt genuinely repentant. He hadn't been back since. "You?"

"Once."

"Only once? I would've thought a… what was it, a darkly handsome black-Irish fella with a devil-may-care attitude and more brains than common sense, would have had a whole lot of sins to confess to."

"Without a doubt," Wells nodded, as unrepentant as Bucky. "God, my thoughts alone would have an entire convent of nuns saying a thousand hail-Marys for my soul. But… well…" He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, a worried frown etching itself onto his face. "Alright, I'm just gonna come out and say it. Just… don't get all judgemental, okay? I don't think you're the judgemental type, otherwise I wouldn't be telling you this, but…"

"Spit it out, Wells," Bucky instructed. This was just going to be another giant piss-take. Like that whole slave-trade diatribe bullshit. Wells would come out with something stupid and trivial, then laugh at how concerned his friend had been.

"Okay." He opened his eyes and tossed the stone into the fire. "See, the thing is, I'm what you'd call… claustrophobic." He quickly closed his eyes again. "Shit, I can barely even say the word without hyperventilating. Don't mind me, I'm just imagining a field. A big, open field, with no trees, and no mountains, and lots of fluffy clouds… no, wait: no clouds. Sky goes on forever."

Bucky studied his friend closely. Wells' normally pale skin had been burnt to deep red during the first week in France, and now it had tanned to a pale almond… but even still, his skin looked paler than it had for a while, and a sheen of sweat had appeared on his face. Now, he understood why Wells hadn't been in a hurry to get back from watering the trees. But if his claustrophobia was this bad, why hadn't he said anything sooner?

"Bet you're wondering why I never mentioned this before now," Wells said. He opened both eyes to narrow slits. "Truth is, I thought I could control it. On the boat, I knew it was just two weeks. It was a goddamn hell, but at least there was an end in sight. And I got around it by staying up on deck as much as possible. Even when it was raining, that was better than being in the troop quarters. Never thought I'd have to come into a goddamn mine."

"How long have you been like this?" Bucky asked.

"Ever since I was a little kid." Wells gave a humourless snort and sat up a little straighter. "Your daddy ever strap you as punishment?"

"No… he never needed to. Though, one time he did throw a boot at me. I definitely deserved it, though." He couldn't even remember what he'd been doing at the time; all he could recall was that the boot-throwing was justified, and it had never happened again.

"My dad was always big on discipline. Came from the Navy, served as an officer until he wasn't fit for it anymore. Highly decorated, skipper of his own warship… and he ran our home like he ran a ship, too."

Bucky sat in silence as a knot of horror formed in his stomach. He wanted to tell his friend to shut up, to stop talking about it. Wells was breaking all the unspoken rules. The rules everybody knew instinctively, like not talking about the particularly unpleasant things unless you could put a twisted, humourous spin on them. Wells was normally an expert on twisted, humourous spins, but Bucky knew this time his friend was just going to tell it straight. And that was something else you never did. You didn't tell it straight.

"The strap was pretty common, until I was about twelve, but it was always followed by the cupboard. And even when I was too big for strapping, the cupboard was there. It was a tiny, dark little coal cupboard under the stairs. It wasn't tall enough for a twelve year old to stand in, so you had to sit, or stoop, and there was no light inside it, so as soon as the door was closed, there was only darkness. It had a lock on the outside, a heavy iron deadbolt, and hearing that bolt slide into place was like hearing the tolling of your own funeral bell.

"Weird thing is, getting strapped, that's just pain. It fades. It heals. But the cupboard… you can't heal from that. It doesn't fade. It stays with you. Even when you're out of it, it never truly leaves you. When you're a little kid, you don't understand it. The strap, you understand. But not the darkness. And not why your mom doesn't come to let you out when you start crying. You don't understand that crying only makes it worse. For every five minutes you cry and wail and beg to be let out, you get another half-hour added to your time. That cupboard drove my eldest brother to the Navy, and the next two to the Army. Just to try and get away from it. Get away from the man who put them in there."

"Shit." What else was there to say?

Wells nodded glumly in understanding. "My first confession, it was like being back in that cupboard all over again. After that, I couldn't go back. I decided church wasn't for me. Ran away from home every Sunday morning, and got locked in the cupboard for it when I returned every Sunday night. But at least it was a private cupboard, and not some cupboard in the middle of a public church. And at least I knew what my cupboard was about. Those confessional booths? The church? Worshipping a god who either doesn't exist or is deaf to prayers and indifferent to suffering. I'd take the cupboard at home over that any day."

Bucky kept quiet, didn't even bother trying to offer some excuse on God's behalf. Whatever faith Wells had once possessed had been seriously torn apart by what his own father had put him through. No amount of platitudes would make that right.

"So. Now you know. My big secret."

"You ever talk to your brothers about this?"

Wells snorted. "Are you kidding? You don't talk to your brothers about this sorta stuff. Hell no."

"That's a shame. I like to think that my brother—or my sisters—could talk to me about anything. Even if it was difficult, or painful."

"That's because you're a better brother than mine. Or a less damaged one. I dunno. It's probably not their fault. When you cry alone in the dark, and nobody comes to reassure you, you eventually learn to stop crying. To just shut yourself down. I guess that's what they did. What I thought I did, until we got to this godsforsaken mine. Anyway, Barnes, thanks for not being all judgemental. And for not making jokes. I can't tell any of this to any of the others… they'd just yank my chain with it."

"My lips are sealed," he promised. "Do you ever… y'know, write to your brothers?"

Wells quickly shook his head. "We're not that close. When we were younger, I used to look up to them… they seemed so big, so strong, I thought nothing could ever scare them like I was scared of the cupboard. I had that illusion shattered pretty early. And looking back on it, I think they felt bad that they couldn't protect me. Take you, for example. I've only known you for a couple of months, but I already know you're the kinda guy who'll do anything for his family. You'll lay down your life to protect them, right?" Bucky nodded. "My brothers and I… none of us could protect each other. I think we all felt we'd failed."

"I guess that's understandable," Bucky admitted. And also pretty messed up. A brother was supposed to protect his siblings from the schoolyard bully, from the mean kid down the street, from the cowards who ran in gangs because they were too scared to act alone. But to protect your brothers and sisters from your own father, who subjected them to the very same torture… it was just wrong. "I know you probably don't want my advice, but I wanna give it anyway."

"Hit me."

"I think you should write a letter to your brothers. Even if you don't send it right away. Even if you keep it until after the war. Just have it there, ready, in case it needs to be sent. I know you say you and your brothers weren't close, but I get the impression that maybe you want to be. And if you feel like that, maybe they do, too. Maybe they just don't know how to start things off. This is a pretty broken world we live in right now, and everybody deserves the chance to say what's on their mind. Everyone deserves the opportunity to write letters to the people they care about. To say the things they wished they had the time, or opportunity, or courage, to say before."

Wells sat in silence for a long time, his fingers toying with one of the buttons on his olive drab jacket. The fact that he hadn't turned it into some sort of joke showed just how seriously he was taking the suggestion. Finally, he nodded, and met Bucky's gaze.

"You're right. I'll do it. A letter to the people I care about. But I'm not gonna send it. I'll hang on to it, like you said, until after the war. Or until it needs to be sent. If… if I keep it in my footlocker wherever we end up making camp, and if I can't send it myself, if it needs to be sent… will you take care of it for me?"

"Yeah. Of course. But don't think like that. You'll deliver it yourself, after the war. In person." Wells' only response was a sad smile, so Bucky brought the conversation back to the point he'd initially been exploring, before his friend's terrible confession. "But I gotta ask one thing. Actually, re-ask, since you kinda evaded it the first time."

"Oh?"

"Why so macabre? Given your claustrophobia, why'd you go on and on at Carrot about all that slavery bullshit, and the U-boats torpedoing the _Monty_? Surely that can't have been healthy for you to think about."

A small grin appeared on Wells' face, and Bucky knew then that his friend was going to be okay. "Not sure I should tell you that. Personal trick. But what the hell, maybe it won't even work for you. Maybe it's just a thing I do because I'm crazy and it helps me cope. But I figured out long ago that if something makes you uncomfortable, and I mean really uncomfortable, then you can make yourself feel less uncomfortable by shifting some of that discomfort to someone else. Worried about U-boat attacks? Make someone else shit their pants at the thought. Kept awake by the terrible food and ever-encroaching darkness? Make someone else fear it more. Doesn't matter if it's real, it can be total bullshit, as long as someone else is more uncomfortable than you."

"That's pretty messed up."

"Yeah. Just out of curiosity, how uncomfortable are you right now?"

"On a scale of one to ten?" Bucky pondered. "Probably approaching a five." It wasn't every day you had to sit and listen to a friend's torturous childhood nightmares.

"Hmm. Talking's been a useful distraction, but I'm still hovering around a seven. That means we need to get you up to an eight, so I feel better." He tapped his chin thoughtfully, the flames of the fire reflected in his eyes giving him a particularly nefarious look as he studied Bucky like he'd just found a new victim to torment. "When you did your winter training, did they ever make you do that thing, for surviving hypothermia? You know, get your squad-mates together, strip naked and huddle in a sleeping bag to share body heat?"

"You're an ass," Bucky scoffed.

Wells closed his eyes and leant back against the wall, a smug grin on his face. "I know."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

There was thunder. A deep, bone-shaking rumble that reverberated through the ground. Bucky sat up and glanced at Wells across the dying flames of the fire.

"I've never heard thunder that loud before," he said.

Then came the shouts and wails and cries. They flooded the tunnel, causing every hair on Bucky's body to stand on end. And still the earth shook.

Wells looked back at him, his blue eyes wide with fear.

"I don't think that's thunder."


	55. Caving In

_Author_ _'s note: Very sorry for not responding to any reviews over the past week; my youngest puppy has been allowed out as of last weekend, and I've spent every spare moment I have taking her out for walks and car drives, getting her used to travelling and socialising with people and a wide range of animals. So far, so good! I'll get around to responding, along with catching up on stories I follow, over the next couple of days. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _55\. Caving In_

Bodies came pouring up the tunnel, men and women whose faces were pale, eyes wide in shock, their clothes caked in dust. Agent Carter's voice grew louder as she approached, her instructions of, "Out, everybody out, quickly and calmly, and don't take more than you can carry easily in your hands," reaching Bucky's ears before he saw her dust-smeared face. Wells kicked out the fire and stepped aside to let the tide of people pass.

"Agent Carter," Bucky said, when she was close enough to hear his call, "what happened?"

"An earthquake," she said. She was putting on a brave front, but he could see the fear lurking in the depths of her eyes. "Didn't you feel it?"

His heart thumped loudly in his chest. "Is anybody hurt?"

She nodded. "A few. We're bringing the injured up last; the doctors are working on them, and we needed the area clear before the engineers can ascertain whether it's safe to attempt a rescue."

" _Rescue_?!"

Her voice softened, as if trying to take the edge off a harsh blow. "When the earthquake struck, one of the tunnels partially collapsed. Some were injured, and others were trapped. We don't know how many are stuck down there, nor how many are injured or worse. The colonels sent me to oversee the evacuation up here, whilst they send up everyone else who's still down below."

"Who's trapped?" His eyes scanned the faces of those passing him as they spilled out into the open air. He saw members of the 107th amongst them, but all the regiments were mixed in together. Hawkins, Mex and Hodge passed him, but they hadn't even been in the same tunnel.

"We don't know," Carter said. "It's impossible to get a headcount down there."

"What can we do?" asked Wells, beating Bucky by a hair's breadth.

"Separate everybody into infantry or support personnel. Have them form up in their regiments and find someone from each group who can start sounding names off."

Now that there was a plan, Bucky's heart began beating a little steadier. "Infantry form up over here, with me," he shouted over the crowd, while Wells took the support staff to another area and began separating them into their groups; Engineers, Signals, Medics, and the small collections of auxiliary personnel who helped to oil the wheels of war.

After a while, the influx of people began to slow, and Bucky was still missing Gusty, Franklin and Davies, along with small numbers from the other Infantry regiments. Just as he was about to head back to the tunnel to check for stragglers, Gusty appeared. He was limping a little, but otherwise unharmed. The same couldn't be said for the man from the 9th he was practically carrying; the guy's arm was hooked over his shoulder, and he had a nasty head wound.

The rest of the injured were brought up last; three men unconscious with head and upper body injuries, one of the nurses with a broken arm, and finally Howard Stark, who was nursing a dented cup of moonshine. The doctors and nurses not already accompanying the injured scrambled to set up a space for triage.

"How are we looking on the headcount?" Phillips asked, as soon as he was in the open air. His face glistened with dust-streaked sweat, and his hat was sitting askew atop his head.

"The 107th are missing two men," Bucky told him. "Dugan tells me they're also down two men, and we're four missing from the 370th. All of the 9th are now accounted for."

Wells stepped up to report on his own count. "All support personnel are accounted for except five engineers."

"Sir, if there are men buried, I volunteer to help dig them out," Bucky said immediately.

"First things first, Sergeant," said Phillips. "We can't start digging until we know it's safe to shift the load, otherwise we risk bringing more down on top of anybody already in there, not to mention the team sent to get them out. For now, sit tight. See to your men. As soon as I'm given the green light from the engineers, I'll let you know if you can be of any help."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky lost track of how long he sat waiting. His mind was only half present; the other half was deep in the mine, with Franklin and Davies and the rest of the men who were trapped behind a wall of fallen rock. As he waited, he tried not to think about what must be going through the minds of those men. How they must be feeling. How cold, and alone, and in darkness they were. Davies would be accepting bets on how long it would take for them to be rescued, but maybe there was some niggling doubt in their minds about whether they would be rescued at all. Maybe each one of them secretly hid the belief that perhaps they might die down there. That the mountain itself would be their tombstone and grave.

He tried to push the thoughts away. His problem, he realised, was too much imagination. An active imagination had been a blessing when he'd been a kid. He and Steve and their friends had turned the most mundane of objects into games. Cardboard boxes had been a fort, which they'd defended against Mary-Ann and little Johnny Delaney, who'd been the Indians. They'd played at cowboys, and pirates, and they'd even been explorers once or twice, searching deep in the heart of the jungle—the park—for buried treasures.

Growing up, he hadn't lost his imagination, it had merely become rusty through misuse. New York had been comfortable. Tame. It had been home. He'd had no need to imagine enemies lurking around every corner, because there had been no enemies. It had been a simpler, more innocent time.

Since signing up, his imagination had resurfaced, kindled perhaps by some childhood memory of standing with Steve and his friends at the Alamo, defending his home against fictional enemies. Back then, he hadn't worried about what might go wrong, because nothing _could_ go wrong. The worst that could happen was somebody grazing his knee, and that was an injury easily fixed by one of Mom's cookies and a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade. It had been life or death, but death had not been permanent. Not like it was out here, where the enemies shot real bullets and there was no Mom waiting to provide cookies and lemonade, or to kiss away the hurts.

As soon as he saw movement at the mine entrance, he was on his feet, moving fast enough to hear the guy talking to the brass confirm that it was safe enough to send a small team in to start trying to dig the trapped men out.

"Sir, I volunteer," Bucky said.

"Me too," said Wells from behind him.

"We only need a small team, Sergeants," Phillips said, with a questioning glance at the lieutenant from the Engineers.

"A couple of extra hands to shift some of the heavier stuff wouldn't hurt, Colonel," the man said.

Phillips sighed. "Alright. But be careful; I don't want more men trapped down there."

The lieutenant turned to face Bucky and Wells. "Grab yourselves something you can make protective lower face masks from. We're going to be agitating dust as we work, and the last thing you want is to breathe it in and come down with respiratory irritation. If you can find any protective goggle, too, that would be even better. I'll meet you back here in five minutes and take you down to where the tunnel's collapsed."

Bucky nodded, then dashed back to his backpack. He pulled out a triangular bandage from his first aid kit and fashioned it into a makeshift nose and mouth mask. As Wells did the same, Bucky inched closer to him, to speak without being overheard.

"Are you sure about this, Wells? If you thought it was bad in the mouth of the tunnel, how much worse is it gonna be down where the tunnel's collapsed?"

"I'll manage," said Wells, the lower half of his face hidden behind his makeshift mask. "Really, Barnes, let me worry about me," he continued, when Bucky didn't look convinced. We have men trapped, and I'm not gonna let this get in the way of helping my friends. Besides, Davies still owes me six bucks. Now, are you coming, or are we just gonna waste time talking about it?"

Bucky gave up. After seeing Wells lose his head just a few hours ago, he had his doubts that the guy would last more than five minutes down in the collapsed tunnel. But Wells had been to the Steve Rogers school of stubbornness, and Bucky couldn't afford to be worried about Wells right now. He had too much worry invested in the trapped men.

They found Stark and borrowed two pairs of protective goggles, then met up with the lieutenant at the mine's entrance. When they both nodded to indicate their readiness, he handed Bucky one of the lamps he'd lit and led them down into the tunnel.

The weight that had pressed so ominously down on them during their last journey into the mine felt ten times heavier in the wake of the incident. Bucky forced his breaths to remain steady despite his racing heart. _Trapped in a mine_ was not how he wanted to end this war. That wouldn't be the letter his parents got.

A crew was already hard at work in the collapsed tunnel, but it wasn't the frenzied scramble to free the trapped men that Bucky had been expecting. The team worked slowly, critically examining each and every stone before pulling them out of the pile. Bucky wanted to dive in; common sense held him back.

"How's progress?" their guide asked.

"Slow," said another. "A surprisingly large amount of the rock here is load-bearing."

"Have you heard anything from the men on the other side?" Bucky asked. The man shook his head. "What can we do to help?"

"Start over there. And don't move anything unless you've been given the OK."

So they worked under the direction of the lieutenant, watching while he poked around the pile of jumbled rocks, waiting while he shifted a few broken pieces here and there, eventually hauling the larger debris away when instructed, and always going carefully, slowly, piling the discarded rocks far away from the chaotic mess.

After twenty minutes of digging it seemed they'd made little progress. How much air was on the other side of the blockage? Would the men trapped there run out, or would they try to make it to the second exit somebody had mentioned hours earlier? Did this branch of the tunnel even _have_ a second exit, or did it lead to a dead end? He asked the questions as he worked, but none of the engineers seemed to have any answers.

"I've found someone!" one guy called, and everybody crowded around, oil lamps in hand.

At first, Bucky didn't see what the engineer had seen. Slowly, the scene before him was revealed, like an optical illusion. Sticking out from the large pile of dark rocks was an equally dark hand. _One of the 370th._ Somebody crouched down and used his first two fingers to search for a pulse, but even before he looked up and shook his head, Bucky knew the guy was being overly optimistic. Nobody could survive being crushed by that much rock.

"Should we fetch a medic?" asked Wells. There was a sheen of dirt-streaked sweat across his forehead, and Bucky knew just how he felt. Even though he wasn't claustrophobic himself, he felt as if the mountain was only a small tremor away from collapsing further.

"No," the lieutenant said. "Not yet. There's no point risking anybody else. Not until we've got good news and somebody to save."

Slowly, they dug the body out. They couldn't risk pulling the man from under the stones in case his body had been incorporated into the load-bearing mass. When the body was finally released, Bucky's heart sank. He didn't know the name of the young, dark-skinned private, but he'd seen him around camp. It was harder, somehow, seeing the face of someone familiar than the face of a stranger.

Another half hour of digging revealed two more bodies; one from the 69th, and another from the 370th. Bucky and the others lay the men down side by side at one end of the tunnel, closing their eyes and taking their tags to be returned to their officers. A small, traitorous thought lurked in the back of his mind. _Maybe all the men were crushed in the cave-in. Maybe there_ _'s nobody left to save._ He pushed the thought away. So long as even one man was unaccounted for, there was hope, and he would dig until, one way or the other, everybody had been found.

"There," the lieutenant said to Bucky, gesturing at a large rock. "That one's safe to move."

When Bucky glanced up to Wells, to ask his friend to help him lift the heavy chunk, he spotted him a short distance away, leaning against the stone wall and practically doubled over, his face pale and sweaty, his eyes closed. Even though his hands were resting against his knees, propping up his upper body, his arms were shaking. Bucky hurried over to his side.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Wells shook his head. "There's no air down here." He took a deep gasp. "Feel like my lungs are on fire."

"I'm just gonna take Wells to get some fresh air," Bucky told the lieutenant. "I think he's feeling a bit light-headed from the heat."

The man merely nodded. "Alright. Get yourselves a drink of water, too. This sort of thing isn't easy."

Bucky grabbed one of the lamps and shepherded his friend further up the tunnel. Almost had to carry him. Wells' progress was painfully slow; each step seemed to take a lifetime. Finally, halfway along the tunnel, Wells' legs gave way and he sank to the ground. In the confines of the tunnel, his rapid breathing came echoing back and forth, and Bucky found himself completely at a loss. What should he do? What _could_ he do? If he took the lamp and went to fetch a medic, Wells might panic over being left alone in the dark. If he left the lamp and tried to make his way back in the dark, he might take the wrong fork and end up wandering the mines forever. By now they were too far from the other excavators for the men to hear their calls, and even if they _weren_ _'t_ , he didn't think shouting this far underground was a very good idea. Not after the recent tectonic activity.

He considered asking Wells what he was supposed to do, but Wells was too busy trying to curl himself up into a tiny, panicked ball. Each rapid, ragged breath sounded like a wheeze, and Bucky suspected he didn't have enough air left in his lungs to do any talkin' with. He was completely and utterly on his own.

His mind went back to a few hours ago, when Wells had managed to stave off panic by imagining himself in an open field. Bucky looked down at his friend. Wells seemed to be beyond the help of _open fields_.

He sank down onto the floor beside Wells and tugged the makeshift breathing mask from his friend's face, so he could breathe a little easier. That ought to help… a little. Maybe. He just didn't know which problem to address first; the darkness, the closeness, the hyperventilating… why hadn't his basic first aid training covered this?!

 _What would I do if it where Steve?_ he thought to himself. _C_ _'mon, Barnes, think! You've helped Steve out of lots of scrapes. This is no different. Or at least, not all that much different. Just use your head._

"Wells," he said, and received no response. "Wells, listen, I need you to give me your hand, okay?"

If Wells heard him, he gave no indication. His arms remained firmly wrapped around his legs, his knees raised to his chin and his face buried in them. Bucky ran a hand down one of Wells' arms and forced his fingers beneath Wells' hand. Finally, Wells transferred his hot, sweaty grip to Bucky's hand, and Bucky felt every single tremor as it shook his own arm too. Wells feeling fine would've thrown out a smart-assed comment by now. _We_ _'re not gonna sing kumbaya, are we?_ The lack of smart-assed comment reinforced just how not-fine Wells was.

"Listen, pal, I want you to focus on my voice, okay? Squeeze my hand if you're hearing me and understanding me." The already tight grip tightened even further. It made the trembling worsen. Bucky's chest begin to feel tight, as if just watching Wells struggle to breathe was making it harder for _him_ to draw breath. He tugged his face mask down before continuing. "Okay, good. Now, I want you to close your eyes and think of that wide open field. Blue sky. No clouds. In fact, don't even bother with the field; they're overrated. Think of the days you spent on the deck of the _Monty_. Nothing but water and horizon as far as the eye can see. Smell the fresh salty air, and hear those annoying seagulls. And while you do that, I want you to focus on my hand. I'm gonna breathe, and I want you to breathe with me, okay? When I squeeze your hand, that means inhale. And keep breathing in, and holding your breath, for as long as I'm squeezing. And when I let go of your hand, that means start exhaling. Do you understand? Squeeze my hand, Wells."

It was squeezed.

"Good. Okay, now, here we go. Take a slow breath in, and think of the _Monty_."

At first, he thought it wasn't working. Wells was still breathing as fast as ever. His hand was still slick with sweat, his arm shaking so much Bucky felt it tremor down his own arm. It took a few cycles of him squeezing Wells' hand, a few mantras about open skies and fresh air, until Wells got the hang of how and when to breathe. When he did, the shaking started to become less intense. The rapid wheezes grew quieter. Finally, as Wells managed to get air into his lungs, his body relaxed, his limbs loosening as he uncurled from the protective ball he'd drawn himself into. Each shaky breath was a small victory, and he gripped Bucky's hand as if it was a lifeline.

Bucky checked his watch. It had felt like a lifetime of sitting in the dark, breathing slowly, squeezing Wells' hand, but it had been only ten minutes. His own throat was dry from the effort of breathing to a slower rhythm, so he took out his canteen and washed away the _dry_ with a few deep gulps. He held the flask out to Wells, who shook his head. In the yellowish lamplight, he looked terrible. His hair was damp with sweat, his eyes wide and pupils dilated, his face pale and clammy with streaks of dust smeared here and there, and he still shook slightly with each inhale. Still, at least he didn't need Bucky to prompt him.

"Better?" Bucky asked.

Wells nodded and licked his dry lips before croaking out a response. "Haven't had it that bad since I was a kid. Though I was past it."

Anger burned deep inside Bucky's gut. "That's happened before?" Wells nodded. "And your folks _still_ punished you by sticking you in that cupboard?" Another nod. "How can any parents do that to their own child?!"

"Apparently I deserved it."

"Bullshit. That's not parenting, it's torture."

"Could we not talk about it?" Wells croaked.

"Alright. Sorry. Here, have a drink."

Wells finally let go of his hand and accepted the canteen. A few small sips was all he took before he started to shiver.

"Cold," he explained, as Bucky opened his mouth to ask if he was struggling breathing again.

"Let's get out of here. Can you walk?"

Wells shook his head. "Sitting here, in the light… it's hard, but I can manage it. Pretend that I'm in a tent or something. But when I'm walking, and the darkness walks with me, it's like some never ending nightmare."

"Then close your eyes, and I'll lead you out. You can imagine being on the _Monty_ or something. I'll make sure you don't trip, or bang that enormous head of yours."

The comment elicited a tiny smile from Wells' lips, and he nodded. He pushed himself to his feet and closed his eyes whilst Bucky collected the lamp and looped Wells' arm through his own. He quickly figured out why Wells was shivering; the cold sweat which had covered his body had dampened his clothes, which were chilling him. If he'd realised Wells would be this bad, he would've argued more strongly against him coming back down into the mine.

"I think we're just about even, now," Wells said, as he shuffled along beside Bucky. His right hand was out, feeling for any jutting rocks which he might walk into. It was a futile effort, because Bucky was guiding him around any obstructions.

"Even?"

"Yeah. I saved your life, and you got me to the hospital after I stabbed myself, and stopped me having a full blown panic attack just now."

"I didn't realise we were keeping score."

"I like to know where my debts lie."

"I don't think there should be any debts between friends."

"In that case, can I borrow a hundred bucks?"

Bucky snorted. "Sure. I think there's a bank down the next tunnel."

They continued in silence for a moment, and Bucky's thoughts went back down to the men trapped behind the rockfall. Apparently, Wells was thinking about the same thing.

"I just need a few minutes in the fresh air. Then we can rejoin the digging team."

Bucky stopped, forcing Wells to stop beside him. "Are you crazy? You can't go back down there." Wells was mad if he thought Bucky was gonna let him go anywhere near that tunnel.

"Sure I can." Wells opened his eyes for long enough to fix Bucky with a determined scowl. "We have men trapped. _Friends_ trapped. I'm not gonna leave them. Besides, you know I can't tell anyone why I can't go back down there."

With a sigh of frustration, Bucky shook his head. Lord save him from stubborn, mule-headed friends! Being around Wells was like being around a larger, more sarcastic version of Steve.

"Wells, you're far from okay, and if you even _try_ to get back down there, I'll haul your contrary ass to the hospital tent and tell Nurse Klein to pin you to a bed and beat some sense into you." Wells opened his mouth to protest, but Bucky hurried on. "Look, nobody has to know why you can't go back down. We'll tell them that we need someone stronger to help shift a heavy load, and I'll take Biggs back with me. That's sorta technically true anyway. And if the next words out of your mouth aren't _'okay, we'll do it your way,'_ I will personally kick your ass the second we're out of this tunnel."

"Fine," Wells scowled. He closed his eyes, and they resumed their journey. "I hate being like this. Afraid, and weak."

"You're not weak," Bucky assured him. "I've seen you come under fire without even flinching. Crazy? Sure. Weak? I think not. After everything your folks put you through, I'm not surprised small, confined spaces trigger panic attacks. If I were you, I doubt I would've lasted this long."

Wells seemed too tired to argue further. Just before they reached the mouth of the tunnel he extracted his arm from Bucky's and managed to walk unaided into the open air. As soon as they reached the rest of the company, they were inundated with questions about whether anybody had yet been found. Bucky dodged them, whilst Wells outright ignored them. Nobody questioned why Wells was switching places with Biggs, and as soon as the large man had his own face mask and had borrowed the protective goggles from Wells, Bucky led him back down into the mine, all the while praying that there was somebody left alive to save.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky dug slowly, each twist of his entrenching shovel rubbing against the blisters on his fingers and hands. He welcomed the pain. Invited it in because it stopped everything else from coming out. The longer he delayed finishing the hole, the longer it would be until he'd have to put another friend in the ground. Around him, in deepening trenches, Wells and the men from the other regiments who'd volunteered for grave duty dug in sombre silence, the only sound their shovels biting into the ground, loosening earth, throwing it up into piles which grew as the graves were hollowed.

Thirteen graves. Thirteen men. The cost of staying 'safe' from the _Luftwaffe_ was thirteen lives—a heavy price to pay. Too heavy. The men injured in the cave-in were on the road to recovery, but those who'd been crushed under the bulk of the rubble hadn't stood a chance. Most of them had died instantly. They'd found Franklin and Davies next to a couple of the dead engineers, their broken bodies twisted and crushed by the weight of the earth above them. It was a terrible, pointless way to go.

Eventually, the other men finished and left. Bucky tried to work even more slowly now, making each shovel full of earth come as slow as he could manage. He glimpsed Wells above, watching him work, but his friend didn't offer to help. Maybe Wells understood, or maybe he didn't wanna get in the way, or maybe he didn't wanna imply Bucky wasn't up to the task of digging a hole. Either way, he watched in silence, and Bucky dug in silence.

Not even he could delay forever. Soon—too soon—the hole was deep enough to bury a man. Wide enough to fit him comfortably. No coffins out here, just blankets. A bed in the earth, an eternal resting place for men who didn't deserve this. Good men. Men who had succumbed not to enemy fire, but to a geological act of serendipity.

For a long moment, Bucky stood in the grave, observing it critically. Would Franklin or Davies be happy here? _No. Stupid. Stupid thought. It_ _'s a hole in the ground._ He considered working a bit more, chipping a little at the sides, smoothing off some of the rough edges. But then… when they put the dirt back in, it would all be the same, except a little higher. Bodies displaced dirt. He'd learnt that much after Danzig.

Wells reached down to offer him a hand, and Bucky allowed himself to be pulled out of the hole, wincing as his blisters were rubbed again. Now out, he stuck his entrenching shovel into the pile of loose earth and stood looking down at the hole he'd made, with Wells standing beside him. From up here, the hole looked better. Larger. Smoother. This was a better view to be buried from.

"Remember that day back in NYPOE, when Franklin taught us how to stir sugar into coffee?" Wells offered at last.

There was a gleam of humour in his voice, elusive as gold nuggets in a panned-out stream. Bucky could remember it, alright; remember it like it was yesterday. The bullshit coffee stirring. The ban on stirring coffee too much. The sugar-redistributing it had spawned. Once, how to stir coffee properly had been the most important thing in the world. The hot topic of the day. Back when they'd all been young and stupid, all of three months ago. Amazing, how a guy could age in three months.

When the memory elicited no response from Bucky, Wells continued. Bucky didn't have to look at his friend's face to see the half-smile on his lips.

"And remember how Davies did all that stuff to get Carrot's rose to Samantha? All the shit we had to barter for? Those matches we played on the Eagles' dartboard to win our stuff back?"

Suddenly, it was too much. Franklin and Davies were dead. Carrot was dead. Tipper was gone. So was Weiss, and Danzig, and a bunch of guys Bucky had known as comrades but never as friends. Too many men were in the ground. Too many were a permanent part of the earth, fated to lie here forever, until their bones turned to dust. And now, Franklin and Davies were joining them. Remembering the men they had been was too hard. Too painful.

"I don't wanna play this game anymore," he said, his parched throat forcing his words into a croak.

Wells turned to face him. "Game?"

" _Remember this. Remember that_. Maybe I don't wanna remember this and that."

"It's better to remember how they lived than how they died," Wells said, his voice infuriatingly patient, like he was some damn teacher talking to a stubborn child. "It's a better way of honouring their memories, and who they were."

"We can't all be like you, Wells," Bucky scowled, turning to his friend. "We can't all just shrug it off when somebody dies and pretend like everything still smells of roses."

He didn't see the punch coming. Wells' fist caught him off guard, knuckles hitting his cheek, momentarily sending his head spinning. The pain of his bruised skin set off a chain reaction of anger within him. Even before his mind had recovered from the fact that he'd just been punched, he launched himself forward and dropped his weight, hitting Wells' chest with his shoulder, knocking him to the ground and punching him before he could recover, a swift punch to the chin which split his lower lip.

Fury draped itself around his mind, caressing his thoughts darkly, sending strength to tired, aching muscles and blistered hands. But Wells wasn't Carrot, who didn't know how to fight, or Tipper, who was too scrawny to throw a damaging punch; he fought hard and dirty, kicking Bucky off him before he could punch again, jabbing his knee into his back, employing his elbows to swipe, fists and feet landing blows as they scrapped amongst the mounds of earth. Even the birds fell silent, awed by the sudden violence and the brief ferocity of the two figures punching, kicking and wrestling on the ground.

When Wells' elbow came jabbing swiftly into Bucky's shoulder, sending a tingling feeling down his arm, he finally managed to plant his foot on Wells and kick him away. He pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the handle of his entrenching shovel, which had become dislodged from the mound of earth during the fight, and held it in front of himself like a weapon. Amongst the mounds he stood,panting, hurting, anger bubbling him inside. A second later, Wells was on his feet too, a half dozen paces away, fighting for air of his own, his face twisted into an angry snarl, his lip dripping blood from where Bucky had bust it.

" _You punched me!"_ Bucky growled.

"You were acting like a complete _asshole_ ," Wells shot back. He took a few steps forward into Bucky's personal space, his blue eyes blazing angrily. Bucky's grip on the entrenching shovel was so tight that several of his blisters burst, wood rubbing against raw, weeping skin. The fingers of anger caressing his mind told him to use that shovel to strike out, but he kept his arm still, forced his fingers to stop twitching. "You think I don't care? That I just shrug it all off? Lemme tell you something, Barnes. When you spend your childhood being punished for crying because it's seen as weakness, you teach yourself to cry _real fuckin_ _' quiet_ so nobody can hear you do it. And maybe I _am_ weak, and broken, because when shit like this happens, when we lose men—when we lose _friends_ —all I can think is that I wish I had some small, dark cupboard to be alone in, where nobody can hear me or see me, even though that place gives me fuckin' nightmares. You think I get by every day by pretending life is sunshine and lollipops? No. I get through the days by letting myself be a goddamn wreck in whatever few moments I can get alone. A few minutes of private catharsis, then I go back to trying to do my job, trying to keep everyone else alive so that one day I might not have to bury any more friends."

Bucky took a step back, and very nearly slipped into the grave he'd just finished digging. He still gripped the handle of his shovel, because adrenaline and anger were doing their best to keep hold of him, but guilt had just gatecrashed his party. So far, he'd managed to avoid crying over the dead. Thought that if he started, he'd never be able to stop. He'd just assumed that Wells put all thoughts of the dead aside, as he'd suggested doing after Tipper died. But maybe that was easier said than done, even for Wells. How the hell did the guy do it? How did he let the sadness and loss in? Acknowledge it? Dance with it? Live with it? How did he put it aside afterwards and hide it away, and pretend it had never been there at all? How did he keep it from sneaking back in? How did he stop that floodgate from reopening?

"I'm sorry," he said, and the anger left Wells' eyes. "I was outta line."

Wells took another step forward. "Look, I get it. You may think you're good at hiding your feelings, but you're actually not. Do you think I don't see how much it cuts you when we lose someone? How personally you take it? I see it. Everybody sees it. But if you keep all those feelings inside, then sooner or later something's gonna break. I know you're used to being the guy everybody can rely on, but you don't _have_ to be." He reached out to wrap a hand around the entrenching shovel that was trembling in Bucky's painfully tight grip. "Let go."

So, he did. His blistered skin stung, his arms ached from digging, and his knuckles were bruised from the punches he'd thrown, but he let go of his anger and relinquished his grip on the shovel. As he did, he made himself a promise. No more being a jerk to his friend. No more wallowing in sadness and self-pity. No more being blind to the feelings of others, no matter how well they hid them.

"I'll go get washed up," Wells said, dismantling the shovel. "I'll tell Hawkswell you're gonna need another fifteen minutes to finish the holes." A tiny, sad smile twisted his lips. "Trust me, the hardest thing to do is to let go, but you can't keep holding on to pain forever. Not without it tearing you up from the inside."

When Wells disappeared, Bucky sank to the ground in front of the pile of earth beside the grave. Tears stung his eyes as they had during the liberation of the concentration camp. Not tears of anger, or frustration, or self-remonstration, but tears of sadness over the friends he had lost. Good men who'd died young and left behind friends and families who would miss them. This time, he didn't try to hold the tears back. Now that he'd been given permission, it was easier to let them come. They spilled down his cheeks and into the pile of earth. Watched only by the morning songbirds, he finally let himself mourn the friends he'd lost.


	56. Changing Seasons

_Author_ _'s note: Readers of my last fic,_ Running To You _, will recognise parts of this chapter. Also, if you_ _'d like to see pictures of my new puppy, you can visit my blog (theurbanspaceman dot net) and check out the post, "Spacepals Review Stuff #2 — Friendship" dated 15th July, and scroll about halfway down that post to where the beagle pictures begin. At the time of publishing this chapter, that particular post is the most recent one on my blog, so it should be the first thing you see._

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _56\. Changing Seasons_

His feet pounded against the concrete as he raced down the street, dodging debris, glancing at the half-ruined buildings from the corner of his vision. Any one of those buildings could've held a squad of German soldiers, but he had bigger problems to worry about. _Much_ bigger. He hadn't realised _Panzer IVs_ were so big, or so fast.

The ominous rumble from behind spurred him on. Shots rang out, bullets whizzing past his head, and he had to fight the urge to throw himself down on the ground. Up ahead was refuge, and as he approached, a figure popped up and began shooting back at the men trying to hit Bucky as he ran. As soon as he neared the wall, he leapt over it and sank down. Wells fired two more shots, then joined him.

"This is the _last_ time we do this by picking straws," Bucky warned.

"Hey, it was your idea," Wells countered as he reloaded his M1. He peeped over the wall and fired again. "You said it would be fun. I have to say, so far, I'm not really feeling it."

The ground began to shake as the _Panzer_ drew nearer. A mechanical grinding sound was the tank aiming its turret at the wall behind which he and Wells were crouched.

"Look on the bright side," he said. "At least we didn't pick the _shortest_ straw."

A huge explosion sent fiery debris flying everywhere. Bucky closed his eyes to shield them from a cloud of smoke blowing down the road, and Wells coughed into the sleeve of his jacket. When the smoke finally cleared, they peered over the wall at the destruction on the street. The blackened bodies lying here and there were the Nazi soldiers who'd accompanied the tank. Baiting the _Panzers_ was surprisingly easy.

Together, they made their way up the street to where, less than an hour earlier, they'd dug a hole. As soon as they drew near, a piece of buff-coloured fabric was thrown back, revealing Mex lying on his back in a shallow trough. The private was wide-eyed, his pistol aimed up, ready to be fired.

"Whoa, calm down, Mex, it's just us."

"I never want to do that ever again," Mex said. He accepted both men's hands and allowed himself to be pulled out of the hole. "I could've been crushed!"

"Stark said the _Panzer_ tracked wheels were too long and wide to dip into your hole," Bucky reminded him.

" _And_ he made your adaptive camouflage shield flame-retardant," added Wells.

"I would have preferred it bullet-retardant, as well."

"Come on," Bucky said, "let's meet up with Gusty's team. Things have gotten suspiciously silent from their street."

They jogged to the rendezvous point and found Gusty's team embroiled in hand to hand combat with a small group of Krauts. One of the Germans had Gusty pinned to the ground by his neck and a knife raised above his shoulder, ready to stab down. Bucky lifted his pistol and shot him before he could strike, while Wells picked off a large Kraut harassing Hawkins.

"Y'know," said Bucky, offering his hand to Gusty, "some of us fight wars with guns."

"Some of us run out of ammo at inconvenient moments," Gusty sighed. "Lucky for us, the Krauts did too."

Bucky tossed him an additional clip for his M1. "Make every shot count. And remind me to teach you how to fight, the next time we make camp. If you're gonna be trading blows with Nazis, you at least need to know how to throw a punch."

A squad from the 69th arrived, led by Sergeant Dugan. The guy was actually nuts; here he was, on the outskirts of Nazi-infested Bergamo, and he still wore his black bowler hat. It wasn't even reinforced with steel; it was just a hat. Bucky had no idea how he wasn't dead yet.

"Sorry to crash your party," Dugan grinned, "but ours finished a little earlier than expected."

"You dealt with your _Panzer_?" Wells asked him.

"You mean that smoking pile of crap the Nazis called a tank? The 69th eat _Panzers_ for breakfast."

"That certainly explains your breath."

"C'mon," said Bucky, as they dispatched the last of the Nazis, "I think I hear gunfire over to the east, which means Captain Banks' party is still going on."

"Excellent," Dugan said, with another crazy grin. He gave his shotgun a loving pat. "I love parties."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Nestled snugly beneath his blanket on his creaky camp bed, Bucky turned over and tried to figure out why he'd woken up. A few moments later, his uncomfortably full bladder provided the answer. He opened his eyes and met darkness. Late night, or early morning? Get up and answer nature's call, or try to ignore the need to pee so he could stay snug and warm in bed?

Whilst he was still debating his options, his bladder told him in impolite terms that he _would_ get up and visit the latrine pit. With a silent groan, he threw back his blanket, reached for his jacket which he pulled on over his shirt, and tugged his boots onto his feet, tucking his trousers into the top to stop them getting damp or muddy.

When he stepped outside the tent, he found himself transported to an almost fairytale-like world. A sudden cold snap had struck, freezing the drew on the grass and the trees, turning everything a crisp, fresh white as far as the eye could see. He could smell the coldness in the air, and when he exhaled his breath fogged the air in front of him. Shivering, he wrapped his arms around himself and strode quietly in the direction of the pits.

Though the days still felt like summer, he knew winter was just around the corner; the early-morning frost was proof of that. Soon, the season would change. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year… all the holidays he would've celebrated back home with his family would go uncelebrated—or at the very least, _minimally celebrated_ —out here. There would probably be no Thanksgiving turkey. No exchange of Christmas gifts, unless it was the exchange of smokes. The start of 1944 would be spent in the same way as the end of 1943: fighting Nazis. Trying to halt the spread of evil across Europe.

Back home, Mom would be cooking her usual fare for Christmas Day. She'd probably make Bucky's favourite apple pie, too. His mom made the best apple pie on the whole street. Maybe she'd save him a slice. Maybe she'd stick it in the electric refrigerator Dad had bought her six years ago, hoping he'd be back in time to eat it.

The thought that he might never taste his mom's apple pie again brought a lump to his throat and moisture to his eyes. He blinked rapidly, because the moisture made his eyes cold, and tried to swallow the lump. He was being foolish. Of course he'd have Mom's apple pie again. When this was over, and he got sent home, he'd write to her first and ask her to have a pie ready and waiting for him on the kitchen counter so that he could breathe in the scent as he walked through the front door. Everybody would be there, including Steve, and they'd all hug each other until their arms grew tired. Then there would be pie.

At the pit, he pinched the top of his leg between his forefinger and thumb, trying to snap himself out of his melancholy homesickness. Thoughts of home had weighed heavily on his mind since the accident in the mines. It had served to remind him that it wasn't just enemy forces he had to watch out for. Even something as benign as rocks might try to kill him. He knew first-hand what it was like to lose people to war, and he wasn't going to inflict that pain on his family. He was going home at the end of it, or his name wasn't James Buchanan Barnes.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"You drop your elbow, Barnes."

"What? I don't drop my elbow."

"Yeah, you do. On your right. By an inch, when you're guarding."

Bucky stopped his bout with Gusty to aim a scowl at his friend. Wells was watching from his seat on the back of a parked-up, mud-plastered jeep, an open bag of sunflower seeds clutched in his hand. God only knew what he'd traded for those.

"Do you know how many championship titles I have under my belt?"

"Must be some other belt." Wells split a seed with his teeth and blew the shell out onto the ground. "One you left at home, maybe."

"I don't drop my damn elbow."

Wells rolled his eyes. "Corporal Ferguson, please tell Sergeant Barnes that he drops his damn elbow."

Both men looked at Gusty, whose eyes suddenly shifted hastily from side to side in the search for a way outta answering. "Err, I wouldn't really know what I'm looking for, Sarge."

"You're looking for a damn elbow that's dropping by an inch. You know what an elbow looks like, don't you, Gusty? And you've quite possibly been given the scope of 'an inch' by some poor, disappointed girl, right?"

Gusty cringed and turned back to Bucky. "Yeah, he's right Sarge, you drop your elbow by an inch."

Bucky fought back the pang of irritation bubbling inside his chest. Very few people were willing to expend the effort required to stand up to Wells when he had his mind set on something.

"Thank you, Corporal, you can go and do something else now," he told the man.

Gusty slunk away, seemingly glad to be out of the crossfire.

Wells grinned at him. "I thought you wanted to teach Gusty how to fight?"

"Well apparently I drop my damn elbow by an inch," Bucky growled. "How'm I supposed to teach a guy to fight if I drop my elbow?"

"Don't get pissy. Here, have a sunflower seed." Wells held out the bag, which Bucky ignored. Things had been tense in the 107th since Davies and Franklin had died, and Wells seemed to be the only one who hadn't taken it real hard.

"You're unusually chipper," Bucky pointed out.

"What's not to be chipper about?" Wells shrugged. "Sun's shining, we're in Italy, and we're not dead yet."

"You finally wrote your letter?" Bucky guessed. His friend had been agonising over the damn thing ever since they'd first talked about it, back in the mines. That felt like a lifetime ago.

Wells spat out another shell and crunched the seed. "Yup."

"Still not gonna post it?"

"Nope." Wells shook the seed bag at him, and Bucky shook his head. "Like you said, better I deliver it in person. After the war. Deal with the fallout right there and then, instead of sitting around waiting for a response that might never come, and I might not like even if it does come. I figure I've been running like a scared kid ever since my first time in that cupboard. About time I finally grew a pair and faced something head-on. And who knows, maybe I won't even need the letter. Maybe I'll get the opportunity to say it all in person. In fact, that's my plan. The letter is a backup. Just in case."

"Huh." He couldn't help looking at Wells like he'd just sprouted another two heads. "What changed your mind?"

"You did. After our little heart-to-heart under the mountain, I felt much better. Like, I'd been holding all this darkness inside me for as long as I could remember, and all I really needed was to let some of it out. Kinda like confessional, I guess, only you're a damn sight more useful than a priest." He cracked another sunflower seed open and chewed with an introspective look in his eyes. "I figure, it's gotta be healthy to clear the air. Get stuff off my chest. And really, what have I got to lose, right?"

As Bucky watched his friend, it was like seeing a new man emerge from the shell of an old one. Gone were the dark rings beneath Wells' eyes, product of guilt and too many sleepless nights. The twitchy sullenness he'd been prone to at times had evaporated like the morning mist. It must be great, to find such catharsis in talking.

"If you've got nothing to lose, why not send your letter now? Why wait until after the war?"

Wells shifted on his seat, looking uncomfortable for the first time in days. "Because this is war, and the last thing I wanna do is go distracting anyone with my touchy-feely emotional baggage. Right now, the focus has gotta be on winning the war. Everything else can wait."

"Makes sense." Besides, the very fact that Wells had even listened to him at all was astounding. When he'd suggested the letter, he never thought his friend would actually go through with it. But maybe if he could get Wells to give way on one thing, he could get him to admit defeat on something else. "Now, put down those sunflower seeds and get in this imaginary ring. I'm gonna prove to you that I don't drop my damn elbow."

His friend shook his head. "I'm not gonna fight you, Barnes."

"Afraid?" Bucky grinned.

"Of you?" Wells scoffed. "Hardly. I just have amazing powers of precognition. I can tell you right now how it'll go. After a minute or two, I'll come at you with a left hook that you can't block 'cos you drop your right elbow, and you'll end up getting all pissy with me for being right."

"'Cept it won't go like that, because you're not right."

"I'm always right. It's called _Wells_ _' Law_. And that law follows, _'Danny Wells is always right.'_ Besides, you're annoying when you sulk."

 _He_ was annoying?! The damn nerve of the guy!

"One," Bucky said, holding up his first finger of his right hand, "you're not always right." A second finger joined it. "Two, I do not drop my elbow." A third finger was raised. "Even if there was the slightest chance that you are right about this, I wouldn't get pissy with you over it. Scouts' honour."

"I don't believe for even a second that you were ever a scout. But…" Wells sighed and put his snack down. "If you insist. But first, you wanna change your belt to that one that's got all the titles under it?"

"Funny, Wells. Funny."

They squared up in the imaginary ring, and Bucky was glad of the screened off area they had behind the 107th's tents, away from the main crowd of the army. Not that he was concerned about spectators, of course. There was nothing to be concerned about, because he definitely did not drop his damn elbow.

They traded a few blows, light jabs to begin with, to get a feel for each others' style. Bucky had always been an out-fighter at heart, and he'd never done bare-knuckle fighting before joining up. Dad always insisted on gloves and mouth-guards as the bare minimum, but such equipment was not easily come by in the army. Especially not on deployment. At first he went easy with his punches, because the last thing he wanted was to knock his friend out before he had chance to prove him wrong.

Wells was light on his feet and pretty nimble; he matched Bucky for height, if not weight, and seemed at ease with his own defensive, counter puncher style. After Bucky decided his friend could take a little more pressure, Wells upped the ante by dodging faster, by making Bucky stretch a little further, work a little harder to try and land a punch.

"They really made you wear gloves in every fight?" Wells taunted, as Bucky followed his back-stepping around the imaginary ring.

"What, and you didn't?"

"Bare-knuckle boxing is a fine underground tradition in the Irish community."

"You're not Irish."

Wells shrugged and danced back again. "Third generation. Close enough. And I'm more Irish than you are a boy scout, anyway."

When Bucky realised his friend was trying to wear him down with missed-punches and feints, he stepped closer and switched to an in-fighter style. It wasn't his preferred style, but he needed to close the gap and get through Wells' defences before he was too tired to keep throwing punches. He landed a swift left-jab right-cross combo, then pulled down his left arm for a quick upper-cut… and went reeling as something came out of nowhere, catching him hard on his right cheek and showering his vision with a tumble of falling stars.

Dazed, he stood upright and shook his head. Only when his vision began to clear of bright flashes did he realise that 'something' had been a swift left-jab outta nowhere from Wells… and with more force than a counter puncher ought rightfully to have used for a jab. It felt more like taking a blow from a brawler.

"Y'know," Wells drawled, examining his own purple knuckles, "if you didn't drop your right elbow, you probably would have blocked that."

Bucky shook his head again, still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. Wells had faked him out! Pretended he was a defensive fighter, all the while waiting to switch styles to a slugger. And now Bucky's cheek hurt like hell.

"Let's hear it," gloated Wells, looking smug.

"You cheated," Bucky scowled. "You said you were gonna come in with a left hook that I wouldn't block."

"I gave left hook as an _example_ of something you wouldn't be able to block with your elbow an inch out. And you know as well as I do that there's no such thing as 'cheating' in a fight. There is winning, and losing."

"And cheating."

"Sure, be pissy about it. Thus _Wells_ _' Law_ is proven correct once again."

Bucky bit back his scathing reply and tried not to grumble under his breath. It wasn't that difficult; the stars had returned, momentarily distracting him. "Didja have to hit so hard?"

"No, I guess not. Sorry. I just wanted to make my point." Wells did sound genuinely sorry, and there was a measure of sympathy in his blue eyes, so Bucky let it slide. "How's your face?"

"You tell me. You're the one who punched it." It throbbed like hell below his eye. "I hope my face didn't break any of your knuckles; that would be just terrible."

"My knuckles will live," Wells chuckled. "Let's check out the damage."

Bucky held still, wincing in pain when Wells' fingertips gently probed his cheekbone, his touch cool against the burning sting of his skin. "Well? What's the verdict, doc?"

"That your face will live, too." He picked up the bag of seeds and offered a peace token. Bucky merely shook his head. This was the last time he'd be bare-knuckle fighting with Danny Wells.

"Hey, Sergeant Wells." One of the privates from the 9th Infantry appeared from between the tents. He stared at Bucky's bruised face for a moment, then looked to Wells and his nonchalant sunflower seed cracking, and shook his head. The private wisely decided not to ask the question. "Colonel wants to see you, double time."

"Thanks, Private, I'm on my way." The man disappeared, and Wells stepped forward to hook an arm around Bucky's shoulders. "C'mon champ, let's drop you off at the hospital on my way to whatever new chewing-out I'm about to get. I don't like the way you keep blinking and shaking your head."

"I'm fine," Bucky protested. "Just countin' stars." Besides, it wasn't possible to go to the hospital tent without being forced to give a pint of blood.

"There's only one star that counts, pal."

"Rita Hayworth?"

Wells gave him a happy grin. "See? This is why we get along so well. Now, if anyone asks, we weren't fighting." Bare-knuckle boxing wasn't exactly encouraged by the brass. "Just say you tripped and landed face-down on my fist."

"Yeah, real believable."

At the hospital tent, Wells left him to go get chewed-out by the colonel, and Bucky was admitted by a robust nurse with cold hands and a rough bedside manner. She practically hoisted him onto one of the hard examination tables, and her vice-like grip on his head was definitely on the firmer side of professional. She flashed a light into his eyes, and used her fingers to probe his cheekbone with much less care for causing him pain than his friend had shown. Then she stuck a thermometer in his mouth, because sure, maybe his mouth was broken, too.

"What happened?" she asked, pen poised above an official accident report form.

"I tripped," he said, around the tiny tube of glass poking out of his mouth.

"And fell on a fist?"

"Something like that that."

"Amazing, how much that happens in this camp." She sighed and scribbled down 'tripped' on the form, then manhandled him back into a reclining position.

"Do we really need to do this?" he asked, eyeing up the large needle, thin tubing and elastic strap she pulled out from a drawer.

She took the thermometer from his mouth and checked it. "You're healthy, you have blood, and we could always use more."

"What about my cheek?"

"It's fine, nothing broken. I'll give you a cold compress for it, to help take the swelling down."

Half an hour later, Bucky was back in his barracks tent, lying on his uncomfortable camp bed. His left hand held a wad of gauze to his right arm, which in turn held a compress against his cheek. Missing a pint of blood, and suffering at least a third of a concussion, he dozed for a while, feeling his mind slip in and out of a sleep which seemed determined to elude him. And just when he finally felt himself sink down, into the blissful murky depths of unconsciousness, a voice whispered quietly, right beside his ear, "You were right, the colonel hates me."

Bucky opened his eyes to find Wells hovering by his bed.

"Can I borrow a pair of your socks?"

He pushed himself up, checked his arm, touched his cheek, winced, and then finally clocked his friend's request.

"What's wrong with your socks?" he asked.

Wells worked as he spoke, switching his off-duty shirt for a combat one, pulling his jacket over the top and buttoning it up to the collar. His sidearm was slid into its holster, along with his knife into its sheath. "I'm only wearing one pair, and I need two. But my only spare is full of holes. I've requisitioned some more, but they won't come in time."

"In time for what?"

With a trademark grin on his face, Wells tapped his nose. "Top secret mission, pal. Very hush-hush."

"Tell me."

"Seems those fly-boys over-shot their drop point. _Again_. Colonel wants me to take a squad from the 107th, and go with Sergeant Haven and some of his boys from the 9th to pick up our gear before the Krauts can help themselves to it."

"Those pilots are overpaid," Bucky offered in condolence.

"Yeah. Anyway, the terrain's apparently too rough for the jeeps. Six-hour march there, and carrying a bunch of supplies makes it at least eight back. So whaddya say, can I borrow a pair of socks?"

"What if you don't come back? I might never see those socks again."

"Then you can have the socks I've requisitioned from the quartermaster, and Gusty will be one step closer to that promotion to Sergeant he's been coveting since we left NYPOE."

"Sounds fair. There's a pair of clean socks in my trunk. But I want you to wash 'em before bringing them back to me. I don't want anything that's been on your feet for twelve hours or more."

"Alright. How's your face?" Wells asked, as he hunted in Bucky's footlocker for the cleanest pair of socks he could find.

"Not broken, apparently." Though it still stung like holy hell.

"Good to hear." Once Bucky's friend was done lacing up his boots, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out, handing it over. It turned out to be the packet of sunflower seeds. "Here, knock yourself out while I'm gone. Just don't _literally_ knock yourself out. You look pretty drained, I don't think you can afford to give another pint of blood today."

"Ha ha, very funny," he scowled. Wells merely chuckled and made his way to the tent flap. "Hey, Wells." Bucky waited until his friend turned back. "Be careful out there. I'd really miss those socks."

Wells gave him a grin and a sloppy salute. "See you tonight, Sergeant Barnes."


	57. Dulce et Decorum est

_Author's note #1: If, like me, you're getting the "Fanfic error type 2" whilst trying to submit a chapter to the document manager, you can get around it by selecting Copy & Paste method, instead of upload. Just be careful, because C&P from some editors seems to introduce format errors (I've had the issue with google docs and Word before, which is why I generally stopped doing it. Scrivener seems fine, though.) Hopefully TPTB will fix the problem soon, so we can all get back to properly updating our stories.  
_

* * *

We Were Soldiers

 _57\. Dulce et Decorum est_

A cry of ' _Medic!'_ pulled Bucky from a dreamless sleep. His eyes flew open and met the bland khaki of the tent above. He was on his feet, pulling on his uniform, even before his mind was fully awake. Calls for medics weren't exactly uncommon in the camp, but it had been sixteen hours since those pilots had missed their supply drop-point, and the teams lead by Wells and Sergeant Haven of the 9th Infantry were overdue.

Outside the tent, in the pre-dawn haze, Bucky looked around, and finally saw a group of soldiers being hurried into the hospital tent; his eyes picked out the shoulder insignia of the 107th and the 9th amongst the patches of the medical corps. His stomach immediately tied itself into a knot of worry.

The hospital was in organised chaos when Bucky pushed aside the large door flap and stepped inside. The medical staff were busy administering painkillers and antibiotics, stemming the flow of blood, hooking up drips to put blood back in, applying tourniquets to limbs that could not be salvaged. Bucky's stomach turned, but he fought back the unease as he tried to find a familiar face amongst the mass of injured soldiers.

Private Biggs was upright on one of the medical beds, his face a bloody mess, the lower half of his left ear missing. The medics had not yet seen to him; the walking wounded couldn't take priority. Bucky dodged one of the harassed medical staff and made his way to the soldier.

"Private, what happened?" Bucky asked.

Biggs looked up at him with a thousand-yard-stare, his face numb with shock despite whatever pain his ear must've been giving him. He opened and closed his mouth several times, then mutely shook his head. Bucky reached out a hand, placing it on the man's shoulder, giving a very gentle shake.

"Biggs, tell me what happened," he insisted, more gently this time.

"G—Germans." Biggs took a deep breath, closed his eyes and steeled himself. "T—They got there first, Sarge. T—Then the shooting started. We were outnumbered."

Bucky looked up at the beds, did a quick head-count. They were five men down.

Shit.

"Where's Sergeant Wells? Sergeant Haven?"

Biggs shook his head. "Haven… gone to report to the brass. Mission failed."

Four. If Haven had gone to report, that meant four men missing. Bucky couldn't see all the faces of the injured, because the medics were busy working to salvage whoever they could, but he could count insignia, and there were three 107th patches missing, to the 9th's one.

"Who'd we lose?"

"P—Private H—Hawkins… C—Corp—Corp…"

It was no use. Biggs began shaking, shock properly setting in. Bucky pushed the man onto his back and shoved a spare pillow beneath his legs, then covered him with one of the itchy grey woollen medical blankets. He silently berated himself. Biggs had been through enough. Bucky would find Wells, and Wells would tell him who they'd lost. It wasn't fair to make a private report this.

"Where's Sergeant Wells?" he asked the shaking man. Was it his imagination, or was his head shaking a little harder than the rest of his body? "Sergeant Wells, Private?"

"D—Dead."

Bucky's world did not come crashing down. It didn't come crashing down because his friend could not be dead. Wells was too full of life to be a cold, empty shell. This was a joke. A tasteless, terrible joke. Wells would appear and say something stupid, like ' _Ha, I bet for a moment you were really worried about those socks.'_ And then Bucky would punch him, because that was what you did to people who pretended to be dead just for laughs.

No, he would find Wells with Sergeant Haven. Reporting to the brass on how the mission had gone sideways. Telling them how one guy from the 9th Infantry and three from the 107th had been lost along with the supplies. And then, after a chewing out, Wells would come back with him to the hospital tent to check up on the rest of the men. In fact, Bucky could prove, right now, that Wells wasn't dead.

"Did you get his tag?" he asked.

Biggs shook his head. "H—Haven said he s—saw the Sarge and th—the others g—get h—hit. Ordered us to f—fall back."

"Did _you_ see them get hit?"

Biggs shook his head again, and Bucky left him to his shaking. A small measure of panic had begun to set in. Maybe Wells and the others had come under fire, and Haven had abandoned them. After all, only one guy from the 9th was missing. And the 9th didn't have the 107th's motto. They didn't know the rule about death.

Outside the Colonel's tent, Bucky stopped when he heard voices from within. The loudest was Sergeant Haven's, and Bucky listened as the guy finished his report.

"…and then Sergeant Wells took the left flank, while I led my men right. We were s'posed to advance together, but Sergeant Wells got ahead, and his team came under fire first. I saw Sergeant Wells, Corporal Jones and Private Hawkins go down, and when I lost Private Martland I knew we didn't have enough men to advance and bring back those supplies…"

As he listened, he felt his hands shake before curling into fists, his fingernails biting into his palms. Haven, that bastard, was trying to blame Wells and the 107th for the mission going sideways. Bucky had been on dozens of missions with Wells, and he knew for a fact that his friend wouldn't let his team get ahead. To him, it wasn't a competition. It wasn't a race. Wells wouldn't put the mission at risk by trying to jump the gun on the plans. Hearing Haven blaming Wells… It was too much. You didn't kick a guy when he was down. Bucky pushed his way into the tent, all thoughts of military etiquette flying out the window.

"You're a real bastard, Haven," he growled, squaring up to the shorter man. "Trying to pin your failure on someone who's not here to defend himself."

"Sergeant Barnes, you have not been asked to attend this debriefing, and you are out of line," said Colonel Hawkswell. "You will leave this tent and wait outside."

Bucky ignored the command. There was too much at stake. "Sir, I'd like permission to take a team to recover the men and the supplies lost on Sergeant Haven's command."

"Permission denied. Now wait outside, Sergeant, or I'll have the MPs drag you out."

Desperation grew inside Bucky's chest. Every moment that he lost was a moment in which the danger to Wells and the others increased, and the further away the Germans were getting with their supplies. He had one last chance. Hawkswell wasn't the only one who could authorise a rescue. He turned to Colonel Phillips.

"Sir, please. We can't abandon those men. Or the supplies. Let me take out a team. Haven can give me whatever intel he's got on enemy placements and arms, and I can make sure the job gets done."

Because that was what he did. Time and time again, he and Wells had been given the tough missions, the dangerous missions, the missions that made the other regiments sweat, because they could take out a team from the 107th, get the job done, and bring most of their men back alive. They were the best. Everyone knew it. Impossible odds? Send Barnes and Wells. Mission into the heart of darkness? Send Barnes and Wells. A dozen times or more they'd done the impossible, taken on the tough missions, performed the army's dirty work. And now getting Wells back _was_ the impossible, the tough mission, the dirty work. Bucky had to get his friend back because he didn't think he could keep doing those things alone. Without Wells, it would be hard enough to keep himself together, much less the team.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant," said Phillips. There was a small measure of sympathy on his craggy face, but it was no comfort. "I have to agree with Colonel Hawkswell. It's too dangerous. I'm not sending more good men to their deaths. The Germans have already taken too many in this war. Now, you're dismissed, Sergeant Barnes. You too, Sergeant Haven. Go see to your men."

Haven gave a rigid salute, about-faced and left the tent. Bucky threw a sloppy salute and raced after him.

"You left three of my men behind," he accused, standing in front of Haven, blocking his path to the hospital tent.

Haven's brown eyes were unsympathetic, and he refused to rise to the anger. Refused to give Bucky a reason to push him into a fight. "Your men are dead, Barnes."

"Did you get their tags?"

"There wasn't ti—"

"No tags, no death," Bucky shot at him. The motto of the 107th. Wells, Hawkins, Jones… they were still alive. Otherwise, someone would've brought back their tags.

He didn't have time to argue with Haven. He had to mount a rescue. If the brass wouldn't authorise it, Bucky would. One man would be able to sneak back there. He could take a jeep. Get the men back, get the supplies back, get his damn socks back. And he'd never let Wells borrow his socks again, because clearly the guy could not be trusted.

As the rest of the camp woke, oblivious to their overnight loss, Bucky snuck into the quartermaster's tent, grabbed a bag and filled it with ammo for his rifle. He also took an emergency medical kit, a couple of blankets and a few tins of food, because it might be a couple of days before he got those men back to base camp.

"Sarge!"

Bucky jumped out of his skin as Gusty flew into the tent, and his panicked heart almost beat itself to death. With a scowl, he held a finger to his lips, instructing the corporal to be quiet.

"I just heard, Sarge," Gusty whispered, his eyes wide and afraid behind his thin-rimmed spectacles. "Figured you might try to do something stupid."

"Don't try to stop me, Gusty," he whispered back.

"I'm not here to stop you, Sarge. I'm here to sign up for the rescue mission."

Bucky quickly shook his head. "I can't let you do that. You'll be court-martialled."

"Better than leaving men behind, Sarge. And with two of us, we've twice the chance of succeeding."

"Are you sure? If we do this, I'm not gonna be able to protect you." Hell, he wouldn't even be able to protect himself. His papers would be served so fast that he'd be in some MP cell as soon as he set foot back in camp, given his dishonourable and sent back home in shame before the end of the week. And that was okay for him, because a sergeant in the 107th had to watch out for his men. But Gusty wasn't a sergeant.

"Dead sure." The man gave an uneasy wince. "Sorry. I mean, completely sure. We'll bring 'em back together."

"Alright," Bucky relented. Gusty was obviously mad, and there was no point trying to talk sense into a madman. Besides, he didn't have time to argue right now.

Gusty looked both terrified and relieved. "So, what's the plan?"

"Take a jeep. Drive to the drop site. Bring our people and our supplies home. It's not a very complex plan, Corporal."

"Right… but…" Gusty's eyes shifted from side to side. "You wanna go now? In broad daylight? Shouldn't we wait for night? You know we'll only get picked up at the perimeter. They'll shoot our tyres out to stop us leaving. And we don't know where the drop happened. We'll need to get into the Colonel's tent, to look at the map."

Bucky closed his eyes. Gusty was right. He hadn't stopped to think this through. It was a terrible plan. All he'd thought of was not delaying for even a moment. But if he was gonna bring those men back, he needed to do it with a cool head. Rushing off in the middle of breakfast wouldn't get him very far. Much as he hated the thought of delay, he needed to wait for the right moment.

"Okay. We'll go back to the barracks. Wait there until nightfall. As soon as it's dark, we'll slip out, get recon from the Colonel's tent, take a jeep to the site. I'll take this bag and stash it under my bed. The quartermaster won't notice this stuff missing."

"Right, Sarge. Nightfall."

"Until then, act normal," Bucky instructed. "Don't do anything out of the ordinary. Just go about your day as you would any other."

Gusty nodded. "Don't worry, Sarge. They won't get anything out of me."

They returned to the barracks. After a while, Gusty left to visit the men in the hospital tent. Just a normal day of seeing his injured comrades. But Bucky didn't go with him. He needed to keep an eye on the supplies he'd stolen. He sat on the edge of his bed, checking his watch every five minutes. Why was nightfall taking so long? Why couldn't the sun sink faster? It hadn't even finished rising yet. Didn't it know that the missing members of the 107th had probably been captured by the Germans by now?

The rest of the 107th cleared out to give him some time to plot alone. At midday, two corporals entered the tent and stood to attention. Bucky didn't recognise their faces, but their patches told him they were something to do with logistics. The only thing he cared about right then was that they were intruding on his waiting.

"What?" he demanded.

"Sir, we're here to reassign equipment."

Reassign equipment? What the hell did that mean? The only time equipment got reassigned was when someone died. Those vultures went through a guy's footlocker and stripped it of anything that belonged to the army, redistributing it to other soldiers because gear was in short demand on the front lines, especially since the pilots flying resupply missions kept missing their damn drop points.

"Well, go reassign it somewhere else. There's nothing to be reassigned here." When they didn't move, he scowled at them. "That's an order."

"Sir, you can't give us commands. We're operating under orders from the quartermaster."

"Then go and get the damn quartermaster, because I'm not letting you reassign anything. These men are coming back. You'll see."

The corporals looked at each other. Bucky ignored their silent communion.

"Sir, we'll give you an hour to go through their effects and take out anything personal. After that, we will be back. And we'll bring the quartermaster, as you suggested."

Bucky shot another scowl at them as they left, but they didn't see it. Damn vultures. They'd take everything away now, only to have to bring it back when Bucky returned with the missing men. Well, fine, if they wanted to waste time, he would let them. At least there were things Bucky could keep safe for his comrades. Personal items. Pictures. Letters home. He could make sure they stayed out of the hands of those parasites.

He started with Wells' footlocker, because it was closest. Wells had asked him to take care of his letter to his brothers, and Bucky would keep hold of it for him until he brought his friend back.

He opened the trunk and rooted through it. He found an envelope, but it wasn't the right one. It wasn't the letter he'd written to his brothers, because it said ' _Sergeant Barnes'_ on the front. Bucky rolled his eyes. How typical of Wells, to leave him a note to remind him not to forget about the letter to his brothers. The guy could be so patronising, at times.

A few minutes later, a small worm of worry burrowed itself into his stomach. He'd been through the whole trunk and found no letter addressed to Wells' brothers. Maybe he'd missed it. He took out everything from the trunk, turned clothes inside out, rooted in pockets and folds, even looked _underneath_ the trunk in case it had somehow fallen out. Nothing.

 _Shit._

Wells was gonna kill him, when Bucky brought him back. He'd already lost the letter his friend had written to his brothers. Now Wells was going to have to write it out again, and he'd never trust Bucky with it a second time. Not after he'd managed to lose it the first time.

He put all the clothes back in the trunk. Then he took them out again and turned them all the right way 'round, just to be triply sure that there definitely was no letter. There wasn't.

 _Shit._

Wait.

Maybe the letter was inside the envelope addressed to Bucky. Yes, that made sense. Wells had made sure Bucky would take care of it for him by putting it inside another envelope. Relief flooded through him as he picked up the envelope with his name on it. Now that he knew where Wells' letter was, he didn't need to open it. He could just give it back like this.

He hefted the envelope. Felt pretty light. Maybe it was more of a _memo_ to his brothers, than a letter. But Wells wouldn't have spent all that time agonising over composing a memo… would he?

Indecision gnawed at his guts. The envelope didn't feel heavy enough to contain another envelope with a letter inside it. Bucky needed to know that Wells' letter to his brothers was in here, but if he opened it, that meant Wells was dead, because you couldn't open a letter that had your name on it unless the guy who'd written it had been killed in action. Maybe… maybe he would just wait until Wells was back.

Unless… maybe Wells had hidden the real letter somewhere else, and this was a clue to its whereabouts. Pillow case, under the mattress, in his duffel bag… yeah, that made sense. Now, Bucky would have to read the note Wells had left him, to find the letter before those vultures came back and stripped the bed sheets and took everything away, letter included. It wasn't like he was actually sending the letter for Wells… he was just finding it, and keeping it safe until he could return it to his friend.

He took a deep breath and slid his finger beneath one corner of the sealed envelope. This didn't count as carrying out a dead soldier's last wishes, because Wells wasn't dead. He was just pinned down. Maybe a POW. Waiting to be rescued. Trying to keep Hawkins' and Jones' spirits up. Probably telling them bullshit stories about POW camps to try and make himself feel better about getting captured.

Before he could talk himself out of it again, he dragged his finger down the length of the envelope flap, tearing it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper filled on both sides with Wells' neat script. Bucky found the front page, and read.

 _Barnes,_

 _If you're reading this, I'm some form of I.A. Maybe K, maybe M, guess it doesn't really matter by this point. You're here, you're reading, that means the brass think I'm not coming back. That_ you _think I'm not coming back. And you're probably panicking like crazy because you can't find the letter I wrote for my brothers. Well, you can stop panicking. I never wrote it. I told you I'd write a letter to the people I care about, and that's what I did. We haven't really known each other that long (though sometimes it feels like forever), but in the short time we've known each other, I've come to care about you more than I ever did for my own brothers, for my own family. You're thinking that's pretty messed up. It's fine to think that, because you know how awful my life back home has been._

 _It's hard to write this without knowing the circumstances of my death. Were you there? Was it slow? Did I manage to tell you some of this as I lay dying? And if I did, I hope you got me back to the hospital ward, and got Nurse Sanders to take good care of me. She's the pretty one, with the green eyes and warm hands. Not like that Nurse Madeley, with cold hands and no bedside manner. But just in case you didn't get me back to the medics, in case the shooting was too intense, in case I stepped on a mine, I guess I should try to say here everything that I would've wanted to say to you if I was in the hospital ward with enough time to say goodbye. The things I wish I had the time, or opportunity, or courage, to say before._

 _I know I've been on borrowed time right from the start. That mission Carrot ate a bullet on… it should have been me. Carrot had so much going for him, and a beautiful girl waiting back home. He broke a heart by dying before he was supposed to. That bullet had my name on it, but it missed its mark because I wasn't where I was supposed to be, so Carrot got it instead. I saw how cut up you were after Carrot's death. You tried to hide it, but you're a terrible actor, and too honest to convincingly bullshit your way out of it. So, I guess the first thing I'd tell you is, don't be cut up like that over me. I've been waiting for that bullet to find me ever since Carrot died, and I've made as much peace with my impending death as a guy probably ever can._

 _I also wanted to say thank you, for being my friend. I know I didn't always make it easy, and at times, it wasn't easy for me, either. Although I've never wanted for friends, I've never had a friend like you before. Most of the time, when I'm acting like a jerk, people say, "Oh, it's just Danny being Danny." And they tut and roll their eyes and wander off, leaving me alone, waiting for me to stop being a jerk and start being a likable guy again. But you never did that. Even when I was more than a jerk, when I was just plain rude to you, you never left me alone, or tried to push me away. You stood up to me when I was out of order, and let me rant when I needed to get it out of my system, even when it would have been easier for you to just walk._

 _I never told you this, but from the moment we met, I looked up to you. I guess I saw a little of myself in you, only, in you I saw the guy I might have been if I'd had a better family and learnt to shut my mouth a little sooner. Try not to let this inflate your ego too much, but I admired the way you handled everything from the moment we met at Last Stop, USA. Everyone seemed to like you, and you had a natural way of making everyone feel welcome, and wanted. When the other regiments were bickering and scrapping, the privates and corporals looked to you as their example, and you set a good one, even when I was goofing around and winding people up to make myself feel better about being there. We can proudly say that the 107th held it together, and that was down to you._

 _Damn, running out of paper. P.T.O._

 _Knowing you, and the rest of the 107th… it's been an honour. But more than that, it's given me so much to think about. At the start of the voyage, when Carrot kept bringing out that picture of his girl, I thought he was a real dumb-ass._ She'll never wait for him _, I thought. He'd wake up one day to a Dear John and we'd have to pick his broken-hearted ass out of the mud and bully the stupid kid into keeping going forward. Now, though, months down the line, I'm not so sure. My perspective has changed, and that's something else I have to thank you for._

 _I used to think that love was any pretty dame who could tolerate enough bullshit, but that's not love, that's just pretty dames. No, I had to come halfway across the world to figure out that love isn't a pretty face; love is when you find someone who fills the empty places inside you. Who makes you feel like you don't have to be even 30% bullshit, that you can just be yourself, and being yourself will always be enough because even when it isn't enough, the other person fills in for what you're missing. Some of us find that in our family, in our parents, our brothers and sisters… or cousins and uncles I guess, for those Deep South types. Some of us find it in our girlfriends, and that's how the Samanthas of the world end up engaged to the Carrots of the world. Because love is blind, and if you can close your eyes and sit in silence and still feel complete when you're with the person you love, then it doesn't matter what they look like, even if they're ginger. Love, when it boils down to it, is acceptance of somebody despite their flaws. Maybe even because of them._

 _I wasn't expecting to find acceptance in the army. The 107th are the family I never had. I always thought I had three brothers who were strangers; now I know that I have a hundred strangers who are brothers. I think that is a fair trade, and I wouldn't change it, I wouldn't change these past few months, for anything. Meeting you really knocked me for six. I never thought I would find anybody I would care about enough to make sacrifices for, but for you I would have sacrificed anything. Everything. Hell, I would even have given up my claim on Rita Hayworth, let you marry her and have that happiness for yourself. Promise me you'll do that, when you get back. Promise me you'll find Brooklyn's golden girl and ask her to marry you, and don't forget to include me in your speech on your wedding day. And say something nice, too, don't go telling everyone what I jerk I was when you first met me, and how I nearly ended up marrying your girl._

 _There is no bullshit in this letter, not even 1%. This is me. 100% genuine. There's probably loads more I could say, but I don't think I need to. You can fill in what I'm missing. You always did. And I bet you're probably around a nine, right about now. I think I would be too, in your place. But now you know me. It's up to you what you do with this letter. Keep it, burn it… it doesn't matter. They're just a dead man's words; what you do with them, that's your choice, Barnes._

 _Dulce et decorum est pro amicus mori._

 _\- Wells_

 _P.S. Gutted I never got to meet your sister. Whoops, there's your 1%._

Bucky stared at the letter in his hands. He re-read the second page, just to be sure he wasn't imagining what he was reading. Just to be sure he hadn't taken hold of the wrong end of the proverbial stick. Most of the letter was full of a sort of brotherly camaraderie, and only the ending was ambiguous. But… that was just Wells yankin' his chain. Wells liked dames too much to have… those sort… of feelings for a guy. And not even Wells would be stupid enough to go to sleep every night with his own blue discharge at the foot of his bed. Would he?

 _Yes. Yes he would._

He re-read the second page for a third time, just to be triply sure he wasn't completely misunderstanding what his friend was saying. Misunderstandings were easy. After all, Wells had talked about people finding love and acceptance with their families and friends. That was what he meant. He meant Bucky was like a brother. Just like the rest of the 107th. An extended family.

But then… why would he write that there was loads more he could say? And why suggest burning the letter if he wanted to? There was nothing in the letter worth burning. Just one guy saying some nice things about his friend. When he got Wells back, they'd be able to straighten things out.

It was not a conversation he was looking forward to, because what if—just _what if_ —Wells was actually saying _more_ than the letter technically said? And what if he wasn't joking, and was 100%—or at least, 99%—serious, like he'd implied? What if everything was really awkward, afterwards? Or, what if somebody else found out and it got back to the brass, and they suspected Bucky of somehow encouraging that sort of sentiment?

"Sarge!"

Bucky leapt practically out of his skin as Gusty came charging into the tent. He quickly shoved the letter under his pillow, hiding the offending evidence. Not that there was anything offensive about it; just one guy writing his last letter to a friend, and Bucky getting hold of the wrong end of the stick.

"What's wrong, Gusty?"

"I just saw two of the Quartermaster's staff heading this way!" He peered at Bucky from behind his glasses. "Are you okay, Sarge? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Bucky shook his head, trying to clear out the cobwebs of thoughts in his mind. "I'm fine. If they're coming to redistribute stuff, we need to take all personal effects out of the others' footlockers. Keep everything safe until we get the guys back. I've made a start on Wells' already. Did you know Corporal Jones at all?"

"Not really. Wish I'd taken the time to get to know him a little better."

"There'll be time when we get him back," Bucky assured him. "You do Hawkins' locker, and I'll do Jones' once I've finished up with Wells'."

They worked swiftly. There wasn't much else in Wells' locker; Bucky already had the letter, which he would figure out later. He also took the writing equipment, a couple of packets of smokes Wells was no doubt keeping back for trade, and a small personal shaving kit. The only other thing was a book. _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn._ That damn book. Bucky threw it onto his own bed, then quickly found Jones' footlocker before the vultures could return.

"How are the rest of the team?" Bucky asked, while the Quartermaster's staff reappeared and began redistributing all army equipment.

"Biggs will be discharged from the hospital tomorrow morning," Gusty told him. "A few minor injuries going around, but mostly shock. Biggs said it was a difficult trek back, carrying so many wounded. We may have lost more men, but the 9th received more injuries."

"We didn't lose any men," Bucky corrected. "They were captured."

"That's what I meant."

"Will you tell Biggs and the others I'll come visit them in the hospital before dinner?" he asked, keeping a wary eye on the two corporals going through the open footlockers.

Gusty nodded. He didn't need to be told that Bucky wanted some time alone. He went back to the hospital, where he could sit with his friends and watch his girl at work. Briefly—very briefly—Bucky considered leaving without Gusty. Keeping the corporal safe from the repercussions of an unsanctioned rescue. He quickly dismissed the idea. Gusty had earned the right to choose for himself to disobey orders. Besides, he was right about one thing; they stood a better chance of success with two people to carry out the mission.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The words of the letter swam in front of his eyes. He'd read it so many times that he could practically recite it from memory, and he was still no closer to figuring out exactly what Wells had been trying to say. Struck by a moment of inspiration, he'd flicked through every page of the _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ book, certain that Wells had left some sort of coded clue within its paragraphs; letters circled, words underlined, some sort of invisible ink, perhaps… but there had been nothing. No secret messages. Nothing that spelt out, ' _Ha, gotcha!'_ or anything of the sort.

He'd whittled the answer down to two possible options. One, Wells had been completely and utterly bullshitting. Or two, Wells was being a hundred percent serious and had pretty much declared his inappropriate feelings for Bucky in letter form, which was ridiculous because Wells had never given any indication he felt that way, and Bucky wasn't a dame, and he certainly hadn't done anything to deserve those sorts of feelings.

He found himself analysing every interaction he'd had with Wells that he could consciously recall. It had always been hard to get a handle on where Wells' head was at, because the guy had swung between moods worse than any dame, at one moment sullen, the next full of humour, then twitchy or paranoid or suddenly open and honest, like that time he'd confided in Bucky about his childhood, back in the mine.

Now, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry, because his annoying bastard of a friend had gone and left him with one infuriating last enigma to ponder. If Wells really was dead—which Bucky couldn't let himself believe—then he'd never know for certain whether he'd been telling the truth in his letter. Bucky had to get Wells back just to put the matter to rest in his own head. And if it turned out that he'd been telling the truth, well… they could burn the letter and never talk about it and pretend it had never even happened. That way, Wells would be safe from a blue discharge, and everything would be as it had been before.

Only… Wells had said the letter was supposed to be a backup, in the event of the worst case scenario. Now, their discussion yesterday took on a whole new meaning. Wells claimed he wanted to deliver the letter in person, after the war. That he didn't want to do it now, because he didn't want it to be a distraction. Which meant it probably _was_ real. And he'd probably want to talk about it, because Bucky had been a complete idiot and encouraged him to open up about things, and Wells had said that it felt good to get things off his chest. And that had been fine when 'things' meant talking to his brothers about the torture his parents had put them all through. It wasn't the same when it meant talking to Bucky about feelings he ought not to have. Feelings Bucky couldn't ever return, because even though he did care about his friend, he didn't have any sort of romantic feelings for him.

One line of the letter jumped out at him over and over again, searing itself into his brain. "… _if you can close your eyes and sit in silence and still feel complete when you're with the person you love, then it doesn't matter what they look like…"_ That line, out of the whole letter, made Bucky believe he wasn't misunderstanding things. That his friend was being genuine. Wells hadn't said, " _If you can close your eyes and sit in silence and still feel complete when you're with_ the people _you love,"_ he'd said _the person._ He wasn't talking about Bucky being like a brother to him, like the rest of the 107th. He was talking about serious, _the one_ type of stuff. He was talking about Carrot and Samantha. Mom and Dad. Grandma and Grandpa. And it made a sliver of anger wind through Bucky's stomach; anger that Wells had dumped this on him, because he could not be _the one_ for a guy.

Gusty slunk into the tent and hurried over to Bucky's bed. Bucky folded the letter up again and tucked it into his breast pocket. Later, after the rescue mission, he and Wells were gonna have a long talk.

"Sarge," Gusty whispered. "I just saw the colonels head to the mess tent. That means the command tent's empty. We can get a look at the map."

"Alright," he whispered back. "It's dark enough. I'll bring the bag with me, and if we can get a jeep, we'll go right now."

Bucky grabbed the bag of supplies from beneath his bed and followed Gusty out into the night. He tried to look casual. Like someone who wasn't thinking of stealing a jeep to run off half-cocked on a rescue mission. They got all of ten paces before they were stopped by Mex approaching with a rather shifty expression on his face.

"I want in on the rescue mission, Sarge," he said as he sidled up.

A quiet sigh escaped Bucky's lips. Mex wasn't the first to assume there was an illicit rescue mission planned; several other members of the 107th had also asked about it, over the course of the day. Gusty swore to God he hadn't said anything to anyone, which meant Bucky was just becoming far too predictable.

"Mex, the best thing you can do is stay here and keep up the pretence of normalcy," he said, not even bothering to deny it. He'd stopped trying to deny it after Hodge had asked. Mex didn't seem convinced, so Bucky pushed the point home. "We need all the room in the jeep for bringing back the missing men."

"Are you sure? I mean, maybe we could take a couple of jeeps?"

Bucky shook his head. "Before he left, Wells said the terrain was rough. That was why they went on foot in the first place. We can't go getting multiple jeeps stranded. We're taking one, and we'll drive it as far as we can before going the rest of the way on foot. If you want something important to do, then cover for us after we're gone. You're good at that sort of thing."

"Well… alright," Mex finally relented. "Good luck. Don't get shot by Nazis."

With a clear path to the command tent, Bucky and Gusty hurried on. Inside, they brought out a flashlight and began searching the board and the table for the relevant map. Bucky prayed silently that the colonels still had it. That they hadn't taken off the marker.

"Here it is!" said Gusty, holding up a small waxed paper map. He lay it flat on the table and Bucky ran his eyes over it, taking in the contour lines and the distance to the drop point. Wells had been right; a series of small but steep ridges sat between camp and the place where the supplies had landed. A large chunk of it was unjeepable.

"Are you ready?" Bucky asked.

Swallowing, Gusty nodded. His hand went surreptitiously to his Colt, tucked into his belt at the back of his pants; to allay suspicions, they'd left their M1s behind.

Quietly, they crept down to the motor pool. There, they hit a snag.

"The tanks are empty," Bucky said, as he recalled Agent Carter's anti-saboteur safety measures. "We'll need to get gas, first." He threw his bag into the back of one of the jeeps. "I'll distract the guards at the gas supply, and you fill a jerry can."

"How are you gonna distract 'em, Sarge?"

"I don't know. I'll think of something." If necessary, he'd knock them out. He was already facing a court-martial for disobeying orders. Might as well add a few more black marks to his name. It would be worth it, to get the missing men back.

En route to the area where the gas was kept under guard, they were intercepted again, this time by a less welcome face. Sergeant Haven's expression said he meant business, and he'd brought three of his men with him.

"Sergeant Barnes," he said, stopping in front of Bucky. "I thought you might try something stupid."

"Don't try to stop me, Haven." Too predictable indeed, if even _Haven_ knew he was going to disobey orders.

"Men, take Corporal Ferguson back to his regiment's tent," Haven instructed. "I want to speak to Sergeant Barnes alone for a moment."

Gusty glanced at Bucky, who gave a small nod. It didn't matter. He could go back for Gusty later. Or he could stick with his original plan of going alone. Wouldn't be too hard to knock Haven out. Of course, he'd still have to find a way to get some gas. And he'd have nobody to act as lookout during the journey. Nobody to help him carry men who might be injured.

"Sergeant Barnes," Haven said, once they were alone, "I know how difficult it is to lose men. To lose _friends_. I lost a lot of good people, fighting in Africa. I lost a lot more when our transport was torpedoed. And whilst assigned to the SSR, I've lost men in combat, and I've lost men who were murdered in their sleep. Nobody hates the Nazis more than me. I've seen how they treat their POWs, and I wouldn't leave a single man—not yours, not mine—to their tender mercy. Wells, Jones, Hawkins, Martland—they're dead. I saw them hit. I saw them fall. I wish I hadn't. I wish I could report that they were merely _missing_ in action, and not _killed_. If I thought for even a second that they were still alive, I'd be right there with you, stealing a jeep to bring them home.

"Martland was a good friend of mine. He helped keep us sane throughout the worst of the fighting in Africa. You can't go through hell like that and _not_ care about the men under your command. So believe me when I tell you this: my friend is dead. Your friends are dead. The only thing you will be able to go back for is their tags, and the chances are you'll run into the same Nazis we did. You'll get yourself killed, along with anybody who goes with you. Then the 107th won't have somebody to watch their backs anymore.

"I know it's hard, but you gotta let 'em go. Let them all go, and keep doing your job. If you want to try your luck out there, if you wanna drive and walk and bring back tags, and then get court-martialled, then go ahead. But I've warned the men on sentry duty to keep an eye out for people leaving camp tonight, and I've assigned an additional couple of MPs to keep watch over the gas supply. You won't get very far."

Bucky felt his heart sink low. He didn't wanna believe Haven… but it was hard not to. He'd lost a lot of men in the last three months, and other than Tipper and Pearson, he'd seen all the bodies for himself. But those two deaths had been witnessed by fellow members of the 107th. Tipper's death had traumatised Gusty, and Pearson's death had been reported by Biggs and Wells; they'd brought back his tag. Nobody, other than Haven, had seen the missing men get shot. All Bucky had was a stranger's word for it. But why would the guy lie? Why would he leave behind one of his own men, if he wasn't sure the missing men were dead?

Was he in denial? He tried to let his mind wander to thoughts of Hawkins, and Jones, and Wells, lying cold on the ground. He couldn't. It was too hard. Too hard to imagine that Bucky would never again throw things at his friend to wake him up in the mornings, or plan any more crazy missions, or listen to Wells go on about Rita Hayworth. If Steve had been his best friend in civvy life, then Wells was his best friend in the army, and he couldn't imagine life without either of them.

"You might wanna go see the chaplain," Haven continued, not entirely blind to Bucky's inner turmoil. "See if he can help you find some peace."

Haven left, and Bucky trudged back to the regiment's tent. One scene replayed in his mind; the night he and Wells had been on guard duty in the mine tunnel. The sad smile Wells had given him when he suggested delivering his letter in person, after the war. _I know I've been on borrowed time right from the start,_ his letter had said. _I've made as much peace with my impending death as a guy probably ever can._

If Wells had made peace with his own death, maybe Bucky had to make peace with it, too. He just didn't _want_ to. He didn't care about the awkward letter, or the equally awkward conversation they needed to have. He'd gladly deal with those, somehow, if he could get Wells back and make everything right again. Who was gonna come up with crazy plans, if he couldn't get Wells back? Who was gonna tell him he was outta line, or knock some sense into him when he needed it most?

At that moment, Wells and the others truly died. He'd considered it. Contemplated it. Tried to see how tomorrow would play out. He'd made it real, not just by reading the letter, but by accepting that it could be true. He'd made their deaths real, if only for a moment, and now they were gone forever.

His mind settled on _numb haze_ , because that seemed easier than thinking and feeling and wondering what he was gonna put in the letter to Hawkins' parents. He'd let the colonel send the general condolence letters for Wells and Jones, because Wells' parents didn't deserve more than that, and because Bucky hadn't known Jones well enough to write something personal.

He barely registered when he entered the regimental tent and sank down on his camp bed. Only realised he was no longer outside when Gusty appeared in front of him, pale, spectacled face hanging in his field of vision.

"Sarge, what's happening? Are we gonna go soon, or leave it until after lights-out?"

"They're dead," he said, his voice a stranger to his own ears. "There's nobody left to rescue."

"Don't say that, Sarge! They might still be ali—"

"They're not," he interrupted. "They're gone, Gusty. It's time to face the truth."

"I don't wanna."

"Sorry." He gave Gusty a gentle pat on the shoulder. The corporal had been close to both Wells and Hawkins. "Maybe you should go check up on Biggs again." Maybe Audrey could help get him through yet another loss. At least now, the corporal would be safe from a court-martial.

Gusty nodded, then left. Bucky lay back on his bed and stared up at the dull khaki tent. A few days ago he'd been excited about the prospect of Thanksgiving in Venice. Now, the idea of Thanksgiving _anywhere_ seemed bleak. He wasn't sure he had very much left to be thankful for.

* * *

 _Author's note: A blue discharge (also known as a "blue ticket") was a form of administrative military discharge formerly issued by the United States beginning in 1916. It was neither honorable nor dishonorable. The blue ticket became the discharge of choice for commanders seeking to remove homosexual service members from the ranks. They were also issued disproportionately to African Americans. Service members holding a blue discharge were subjected to discrimination in civilian life. They were denied the benefits of the G.I. Bill by the Veterans Administration and had difficulty finding work because employers were aware of the negative connotations of a blue discharge. Unlike a dishonorable discharge, which punished service members for_ _ **what they had done**_ _, a blue discharge punished them for_ _ **who they were**_ _. (Source: Wikipedia. For a more informative view of this racist/homophobic practise of dismissing service members, check out the wiki article on blue discharge.)_


	58. A Bed of Leaves

We Were Soldiers

 _58\. A Bed of Leaves_

Awareness crept slowly back into Sergeant Daniel Wells' mind, and with that awareness came the knowledge that he was dead. He knew he was dead, because there was only darkness, and everyone knew that when you died there was darkness. Everyone knew that next came the light at the end of the tunnel, the light you were supposed to move towards. So, he waited for it.

He waited for a long time. The light did not come. There was only darkness. How damn typical. The story of his life was now the story of his death.

Something hazy and blurry hovered in the darkness beside him, some fuzzy, indefinable _thing_. He tried to ignore it, but like a firefly at a campfire, it danced around him, taunting and enticing him. Curious, he reached out and touched it.

 _SLAM!_

Everything hit him at once. Pain, terrible aching burning biting tearing pain ripped through him, starting in his right shoulder, spreading out across his back and his chest, sending bolts of lightning down his arm. There was a dull throbbing in his head, which steadily grew in a violent crescendo until it became like the ocean waves mercilessly pounding against the shore. There were other discomforts; his chest felt heavy and restricted, and something sharp was prickling at his face. All around him was the sound of the wind blowing through leaves on trees, and a horrible earthy smell of rotting vegetable matter, damp and mulchy, assaulted this nose.

When he dared to open his eyes, he found more darkness, but quickly realised the source of his discomfort; he was lying prone on the damp, leaf-strewn ground, various twigs poking into his cheek, scratching the skin on his face. But what the hell was he doing out here, out of the barracks tent?

The memory hit him as hard as the pain. The mission. The supply drop. The crack of German rifles firing. The burning sensation as his shoulder was hit. Then… nothing.

He turned his face, rolling his head to the other side to give his skin a reprieve, and saw the silhouette of something nearby. A sort of mound, in the darkness of the night. A mound which looked softer and lumpier than the rest of the forest floor. A mound which may have been somebody else. Maybe somebody injured, like him.

"Hey!" Danny hissed, his mouth dry, his throat hoarse. "Hey, wake up!"

Whoever it was didn't move, so he gathered himself and tried to push himself up off the ground. A new pain tore through him, pulling an agonised cry from his lips as his right shoulder failed to support him and he collapsed on the ground.

 _Okay. Shoulder not working. That_ _'s fine. I have another. Who needs two shoulders anyway? That's just greedy. Better try to keep quiet though, don't wanna attract Germans. Not even Germans wanna attract Germans. It's a wonder they manage to reproduce at all._

He cast his mind back to his basic training, to the advice the recruits had been given about what to do if they got shot. Dammit, what had the drill sergeants said? Oh yeah… _Don_ _'t get shot._

 _Good going, Danny, your drill sergeants would be so proud if they could see you now._

Alright, so he couldn't rely on sage advice from his drill sergeants. He was on his own. That was fine. He was used to it. Growing up, he'd had a big family and a lot of friends, but he'd often felt like he was alone, no matter how big the crowd. Kinda ironic that for the first time in his life he was starting to feel like he wasn't actually alone, and now fate had thrown him yet another curve ball. One that had hit him on the head.

He rolled onto his left side, panting with effort and pain, keeping his right arm held tight to his chest. Around him were dark shapes dancing to the night breeze… branches of trees and bushes, the fronds of tall ferns. They seemed to be mocking his pain. Stupid trees. He'd show them. Later. For now, he had to figure out what the hell he was supposed to be doing.

Using his left arm, he pushed himself upright to his knees and immediately regretted it. The pounding in his head grew worse, bringing with it a rising urge to empty his stomach. He lowered himself down again and waited for the nausea to pass. As he waited, he lifted his left hand to his forehead and felt something warm and sticky trickling down from his temple. _Blood._

 _Must_ _'a hit my head when I fell. Hurts like hell. Why didn't my helmet protect me? Maybe it fell off before I hit the ground. Stupid helmet, it never fit right. I always thought the strap should fasten tighter. When I get back, I'll write the brass a strongly worded letter. Two letters. As many as it takes until they get me a better helmet._

It didn't occur to him that he wouldn't get back. He had to get back before the quartermaster redistributed all his stuff. Before the colonel wrote his parents a letter of condolence, and Danny had to go home and tell them he was still alive, and listen to his father tell him how useless the Army was at death, and how Danny should have joined the Navy like his brother Tim, because at least the Navy was more efficient at declaring people dead.

He had to get back before Barnes read his letter and thought he was some kinda pansy. He wasn't a pansy, he just cared about his friend. And maybe was perhaps possibly just a little bit in love. It was hard to tell. He'd never been in love before, and maybe this wasn't it. But whatever it was, it was different. What did it mean when you were happy when someone walked into a room? Or when seeing a person smile at you made your heart skip a beat? Plenty of dames had smiled at him, and the right dame with the right smile had certainly made things happen. They just hadn't happened above the belt.

Maybe he shouldn't have written that letter. Maybe he should'a said nothing. Just left things as they were. But then, he'd always intended to be dead by the time that letter got read. It wouldn't matter if he was dead, because Barnes could just read the thing then get rid of it and wouldn't have to think about it again, because there was nothing left to think about. But it was too late for regrets now. He'd written the letter and somehow he was going to have to get back to camp and retrieve it before his friend could read it. Or, if Barnes had already read it, try to assure the guy that Danny Wells was no pansy.

Or maybe he was a pansy. He didn't know that, either. Dames pushed the right buttons, but Barnes made his heart skip a beat. Maybe that was just friendship. Maybe it was a completely healthy and natural thing for a guy to feel. After all, it wasn't as if Barnes pushed _those_ buttons like dames did. And that dream didn't count, because it had just been a dream, and it had just been the one time, and it had been a very disturbing dream that had left him unsettled for days. It didn't matter if someone pushed your buttons in a dream. It wasn't real. Dreams were just the mind's way of playing tricks on you. Of being cruel and deceiving you, taunting you with the things you couldn't have and, in this case, didn't want, because he definitely wasn't into men like that, not even if they made his heart skip a beat.

 _They_ _'ll call you Sergeant Fairy,_ he admonished himself. _You_ _'ll get back and get a blue discharge. Worse than a dishonourable, that. Can't let them give you a blue discharge. Need to do something drastic before that happens. Get back and… and… punch Colonel Hawkswell. Yeah. Punch him in his stupid face. Then you'll get a dishonourable discharge instead, and when everyone back in civvy life asks why you got a dishonourable discharge, you can tell them it was for punching your CO. They'll be able to relate to that. Who hasn't dreamt of knocking the boss' lights out at some point?_

He pushed himself up again, more slowly this time. His arm hurt and his shoulder hurt and his head hurt, but now he had a new mission. He had to get back to the camp and punch the colonel square on the jaw so that he got dishonourably discharged before anyone could find out about the letter and give him a blue discharge instead. Then at least he could still go back to his so-called life in the States and get a job and a place to live and be completely and utterly alone. Unless he could maybe convince Barnes to punch the colonel, too. Then they could both get dishonourably discharged and go home and… No, that was stupid. He couldn't ruin a guy's life just because he didn't want to be alone anymore. And he didn't even know if his friend could ever feel the same way, because Barnes definitely liked women. There was nothing for it; Danny was just gonna have to punch the colonel himself.

When he won the battle against nausea, he half-dragged, half-crouched his way over to the unmoving mound, and reached out his left hand to give a harsh shake of the leg beside him.

"Hey, pal, wake up!"

 _Might be a German._

He snatched his hand back, then groped for his sidearm.

 _Stupid Wells, should_ _'a got your sidearm ready before moving. Can't go letting the Germans get the jump on you. Not again._

It was awkward, trying to hold the gun with his left hand, but it wasn't as if he had much choice. His right arm hurt too much to even think about doing anything with it, but at least he could still wiggle his fingers. That was a good sign. Like being able to wiggle your toes after a spinal accident.

He tapped the mound with the muzzle of the gun, ready to respond, to pull the trigger if whoever was lying there turned out to be a Kraut. But there was still no response.

Danny dragged himself forward until he reached the guy's head. Unlike Danny, this guy had fallen on his back, and now he was looking up at the trees above with unseeing eyes. It took a moment for him to realise that the guy was Private Hawkins, and when he did, his stomach wanted to empty itself again.

A tiny, persistent voice inside his head told him to keep shaking, to keep trying to wake Hawkins, but the realist pointed out how grey and colourless Hawkins' face was, how blue his lips were, how stiff and hard his body. Hawkins was dead, and he had been dead for more than a couple of hours. That meant Danny had been unconscious for some time, and each moment he stayed increased the risk of getting caught if the Germans came back. He had to leave. He had to get back to base camp and tell the colonel what had happened, then punch him in the face so he could get the right sort of negative discharge.

He put down his gun and, with a trembling hand, reached out to feel beneath Hawkins' shirt for the tags around his neck. When he found them, he tugged the detachable one off the chain and stored it inside the inner breast pocket of his jacket. Then he looked down at Hawkins.

 _He_ _'s wearing his boots. And he still has his weapons, and his ammo, and his canteen. Why does he still have all his stuff?_

It wasn't uncommon for beleaguered German troops to strip a fallen enemy of anything valuable. Usually it was boots, weapons, ammo and any kits a soldier happened to be carrying that were taken, though Danny had heard horror stories about… trophies. To stop the theft and desecration, if a soldier fell in battle and his comrades couldn't get his body back to base, they took their friend's gear so the Germans couldn't get it, and buried him if they had the time.

 _Mustn_ _'t've had the time,_ he thought, looking down at Hawkins' grey face. _Under fire. Couldn_ _'t even get our tags. But why didn't the Krauts take our stuff? Oh yeah, supply drop. Why waste time on a couple of dead soldiers when you have an entire camp's worth of supplies to get out? Probably afraid of our guys coming back with reinforcements. Had to get our supplies back to their base and didn't wanna waste time on a couple of corpses._

"Sorry, Hawkins, but I need this more than you do," said Danny, taking the man's canteen. He poured the water from the canteen into his own, filling it to the brim.

There seemed no point taking his own rifle along; he couldn't hold and aim it properly with his left hand, and it would only weigh him down. He emptied his bandolier of all the rifle ammo, took Hawkins' spare Colt ammo and put the man's sidearm in his own holster so that he had a second gun to fall back on. Then, from Hawkins' first aid pouch, he pulled out a sling, and managed to rig up a support for his arm, keeping it held fast against his body to prevent his shoulder moving more than necessary. It made him sweat and groan to do it, because each tiny movement was an exquisite moment of agony, but he finally prevailed, then sat back to breathe deeply and recover his strength.

He was injured. Weak. Needed to shed himself of excess weight so he could go more than a dozen paces without collapsing. Had to give himself the best possible chance of getting back by taking only what was necessary.

He ditched his entrenching tool and his gas mask, because he couldn't employ either effectively with only one arm in use. He considered ditching his waterproof poncho, too, but decided it would be too valuable it if rained. No point adding hypothermia to his list of issues.

 _Didn_ _'t Hawkins have one of those K-ration chocolate bars stashed away?_

The thought was not appealing. K-ration chocolate tasted bad and was tough to chew. It was claimed they were Hersheys, but they tasted nothing like what you got off the shelves in Mr. Mcreary's grocery store back home. They'd been designed to survive high temperatures and humidity in the Pacific Theater, so that they didn't melt easily, and then inflicted on unsuspecting soldiers in the European Theater too. It took seven or eight minutes of chewing before even a small mouthful was suitable for swallowing, and he knew one or two men who'd lost fillings because of the damn things.

 _Needs must,_ he thought, and spent a moment searching Hawkins for the bar. He found it and took a bite, chewing for a few moments to delay the inevitable.

Hawkins was dead, but Danny didn't wanna leave him. Didn't wanna be alone. Not yet.

"You were the only guy I knew who actually liked these things," he told the body of the young man, once he'd managed to swallow the foul stuff. "I really wish I could bury you, but I think if I tried to dig a hole, it would do me in. I don't even know if I can stand up. But I have to get back, because if I don't give Barnes his socks back, he'll kill me. Sorry, I guess that was an insensitive comment. Don't know what came over me. I know I should be sad, too, that you're dead, but I think I'm in shock. Maybe I should get moving before that wears off. Before reality kicks in and turns me into a gibbering wreck."

He pocketed the remainder of the barely edible bar and took a few deep breaths, bracing himself against pain. Before he could talk himself out of it, he used his left hand to push himself to his knees, then staggered up onto his feet. His stomach complained again, or perhaps it was complaining about the so-called chocolate he had inflicted on it. His head swam, too, in a thick haze of sparkles and stars that blurred his vision.

Another reason to get back. He'd told Barnes, in his letter, that he should marry Rita Hayworth. If he didn't get back to camp soon, Barnes might just do that, and that had been fine when Danny had been dead, but now that Danny was alive, nobody else could marry the Hollywood star. It wasn't right. It was a pity marriage couldn't be done on a rosta, so they could share Rita. Monday, Wednesday and Friday, Barnes could be married to her, and Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, Danny could be her husband.

But what about Sundays?

 _Sundays_ _… Sundays could be troublesome._

But he couldn't think about Sundays now. First he had to get back to camp. Then he had to punch Sergeant Haven for leaving him and Hawkins behind. Then he had to punch the colonel so he could get dishonourably discharged, then nobody would ever find out that he was maybe possibly potentially a tiny little bit in love with his friend. Then he had to survive the voyage back home, U-boats and all, do some time in an a cell, and find a way to contact Rita. It should be easy enough to convince her to marry him. He was a lot nicer than the last jerk she'd married.

He made his mind up to set out, and began to walk. He only got a dozen steps before he found another body. Another fallen soldier, this one lying face down, like Danny had been. It wasn't right, that a man should die with his face in the dirt, so Danny crouched down and rolled the soldier over, so he could face the sky instead.

It was Jones. Corporal Jones. The corporal had been one of the first batch to ship out to Europe along with Sergeant Weiss, so Danny hadn't gotten to know him on the boat, but Jones had always seemed like a decent guy. Jones, Jones…

 _Can_ _'t remember his first name. Maybe it was Jones. Maybe Jones Jones really was his name. At least his eyes are closed. Not like Hawkins. I suppose he could be sleeping, if it wasn't for the fact that he's dead._

Because dead men needed no items, he went through the same process that he had with Hawkins, taking Jones' spare Colt ammo, his canteen, his first aid kit and the detachable metal tag around his neck. He found another chocolate bar in the man's pocket, and took that too, because even K-ration bars were better than starvation, and Danny needed to keep his energy up. After he was done, he stood looking down at Jones for a moment, and wondered whether he should offer some sort of prayer for the dead men. But what good would that do? God, if he even existed, wasn't listening. Certainly not to Danny, maybe not to anyone. No, it would be best for him to get the tags back to the chaplain, let that guy handle it. That was the chaplain's job, after all. It wasn't as if he was good for anything else.

 _What if bears eat him? Or wolves?_

The thought made him lift his sidearm as he scanned the trees, peering at shadows that might have been wolves and bears waiting for a quick meal. A city boy, he had no idea whether northern Italy had wolves and bears, but this forest looked like prime wolf and bear territory… or so he imagined. The closest he'd come to wildlife was in a zoo, and though he'd spent time as a kid out at his Uncle Pete's ranch, it wasn't the same.

 _Sorry, Corporal Jones Jones. I wish I could stay to bury you, to stop the bears and wolves eating you, but I don_ _'t have the time and I don't think I have the strength. Don't worry, I'll get your tags back, and I'll make sure any letters in your locker are sent. At least your letters will probably be nice, normal letters to your family. Not the type of letters to get you a blue discharge if you were still alive and anybody found out about them._

He set off again, but some twenty paces back from his men he found another body, this one bearing the shoulder patch of the 9th Infantry. It took him a moment to recall the guy's name; Martland. Private Martland. He knew virtually nothing else about him.

Whilst performing a search of the private and taking his tag, he found a small packet of the hard biscuits included in the ration packs, and took them because they were considerably more edible than the chocolate. He considered taking Martland's canteen and his ammo, but he already had two near-full canteens, and more ammo than he could possibly need. There was no point weighing himself down. He needed to move fast, get back to camp before either side pushed the line again. Before the camp moved. Before somebody other than Barnes saw his letter.

"See you on the other side, boys," said Danny, offering the fallen men one final salute. Then he set off, into the darkness, to find his way back home.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Walking was hard. He'd never realised until that moment just how hard it was. Oh, carrying full gear it had been tiring, especially on those damned forced marches, but even marches had never been as hard as this. Every step made his arm ache and his head pound. His legs didn't seem to want to work properly, so instead of a walk he managed only to achieve a trudge.

Not only was it hard, it was also hot. The air felt heavy and close. Soon his clothes were soaked with sweat, and moisture dripped constantly from his hair into his eyes. Every so often he'd use his sleeve to wipe at his face, but it wasn't long before he was wet through again. Never before had he experienced so hot a night.

 _Not the night that_ _'s hot. It's me. Shoulder feels like it's on fire. Might be something lodged in there. Bullet or two, maybe. Have to get back to camp so the docs can take it out. Then I'll be able to use my arm again. I need my right arm to punch the colonel. Not so good at punching with my left._

He stopped and pulled one of the canteens from his belt, and took the top off with his teeth. At the rate he was sweating he'd be dehydrated by sunrise, and if that happened, he would be up shit creek. He had to drink. To replace the fluids he was losing. God only knew how much blood he'd already lost. Maybe that's why he felt weak. Light-headed.

 _I must stink of blood. I hope the wolves and bears can_ _'t smell it. They might come looking for an easy meal. At least I've got my gun, and Hawkins' gun, and plenty of ammo. No bears or wolves are gonna get the drop on Sergeant Danny Wells._

 _CRACK!_

The snap of a twig being broken nearby made him jump. The canteen slipped from his damp fingers, and he dropped quickly to the floor to scramble for it before all his water could leak out everywhere. As soon as he had the stopper back on the bottle, he hooked it onto his belt, stood up and drew his sidearm, aiming the gun up ahead, to where the cracking sound had come from. He pointed the Colt wildly from side to side, at any moment expecting a wolf or a bear to come rushing out to eat him.

A man stepped out of the shadows, and Danny's finger ached to pull the trigger. But he couldn't. Not yet. Not until he knew who it was. Might be other injured soldiers out here. Might be someone else from the 107th, or the 9th. He couldn't be responsible for shooting an ally, not even if it meant letting a German so close he could see the whites of his eyes.

It wasn't a German. The first thing Danny saw was a uniform that couldn't possibly be real, because what the hell would a captain of the Navy be doing so far from sea?

Then he saw the face above the uniform, and very nearly pulled the trigger.

"This is a fine mess you've gotten yourself into," his father said.

Danny closed his eyes. _Hallucinating. You_ _'re hallucinating. Exhausted. Dehydrated. In pain. Alone. But why the hell'd you have to hallucinate that bastard? Out of all the people you could be seeing right now, you're seeing him. Why don't you dream up Rita Hayworth instead?_

He opened his eyes, but it wasn't to the sight of a sultry red-head. His father looked disappointed. Scornful.

"Four sons, and you're the one who screwed up. You always screwed up, even as a kid," his father said. "Ever since you slithered out of your mom, screaming and wailing, you've done nothing but screw everything up."

"Oh, shut the hell up," Danny growled. He lifted his gun, pointed it as his father. "And get lost. I'm free of you, now."

"Free of me? Boy, I'm your family. That's not a responsibility you can just walk away from. Do your friends in the Army know that's why you signed up? Because it was the only way you could find to run away from home? Do they know what a coward you are?"

Danny squeezed the trigger of his Colt to just before the firing point… and held back.

 _Can_ _'t fire your gun out here, idiot. Not unless you're being attacked by wolves or bears. Might still be Germans lurking around. Can't give away your position. Ignore the old fool. He's not here. He's not real. Gotta keep moving. Don't let him slow you down. Don't let him try to stop you from getting back to camp._

He lowered his gun and set off again. His father didn't follow, but after a while, another familiar figure appeared. And now Danny knew for one-hundred percent sure he was hallucinating, because dead men did not walk.

"Sarge," said Hawkins, his uniform spattered with blood. "You left me behind."

"It's not like that, Hawkins," he mumbled tiredly. "You were dead. I had no choice. I gotta get out of here. Find a way back. Take your tags to camp so they're not left forever wondering what happened to you."

"I'd still be alive, if it wasn't for you."

Hawkins' words stopped him in his tracks, and he looked up at the young private.

"I know."

When Barnes had advised Hawkins to go home and be with his family after Drew's death, Danny had advised him to stay. He should've agreed with Barnes. Told the kid to accept the General's offer. But he hadn't. And now, Hawkins' parents had lost both sons to war. And that was on Danny.

He stumbled on again, his thoughts going back to those first days at Camp Shanks, when everything had been easy, and simple, and light. Before the fighting had started. Before the death and the loss which wore down every soldier whether they showed it or not.

Carrot appeared next, his blue eyes full of innocence and confusion.

"I don't understand, Sarge. Why were you always a jerk to me? I looked up to you, wanted only to earn your trust and approval… yet you always put me down and made fun of me and my girl. Why?"

He had no answer. Carrot was right. Danny had done those things to get a laugh out of himself and others. Because it had seemed a good way to keep everyone at arms' length. To stop them asking questions and wanting to get close. Because it was easier to be a jerk than to care. It had been easy, at first, when everyone in the 107th had been strangers. Would've stayed strangers, if Danny had had his way. But no, Barnes had to go and ruin that, too. Started to make him care about all the chumps who'd signed up because they thought they were doing the right thing. Because they were brave, stupid idiots. Better men than Danny, who was only there because it was easier to be in the army than it was to be at home, even with being shot at.

"Hey there, soldier," a woman's voice purred by his ear. He spun on the spot and found Rita Hayworth beside him. Tall, slender, wearing a blue dress that brought out the copper in her hair, and with pins to die for. "Looks like you're trying to get somewhere."

"Gotta get back to camp," he said, no longer surprised by the visitations.

"Are you sure that's where you're going?"

"Of course. Where else would I be going?"

"Seems to me that a man like you could go just about anywhere he wanted."

"Yeah, well, what do you know?" he scoffed. "You're just a figment of my imagination."

"Am I?"

"God, I hope so." Because why the hell would the real Rita be out here in the middle of fascist Italy wearing a gown like _that?_

"Is this better?" she asked, and when he looked again he found her wearing combat fatigues which hugged her curves and actually managed to make her look even sexier than the dress had. Her voluptuous red curls had been tamed into plait, which hung out from beneath an olive drab peaked cap.

"Sure. Wanna get married?"

"Okay," she shrugged. "But only for Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Right?"

"What about Sundays?"

"I don't do Sundays, hun. God's day of rest, you know. You'll have to figure something out. Tell you what, why don't you go lie down over there and think about it for a while?"

"Lie down where? On the damn forest floor? Where I'll get eaten by bears or wolves or Nazis? No thanks."

She laughed, a rich, melodic sound. "Oh, you're so funny! Of course you shouldn't sleep on the floor. That would be uncomfortable. No, there's a bed over there. Take a look for yourself."

He did, and saw that she was right. Up ahead, there was a four-poster bed. In fact, there was a whole bedroom, missing one of the walls so that Danny could see into it. It was obviously a dame's room, because the vanity was covered with bottles of perfume and small tubes of lipstick, and there was a huge mirror standing up from it. At the foot of the bed was a chaise-longue, on which another Rita lounged; the Rita wearing the dress, watching him with a come-hither stare.

"There's a bedroom in a forest. That's not normal."

"It's _my_ bedroom," the fatigue-wearing Rita by his side told him. "You wouldn't believe how comfortable that bed is. Go and give it a try."

"I'm not tired," he lied. He was exhausted. His mouth was parched, his head was swimming in a fog, and his shoulder was so painful it had actually ceased hurting. A sort of numbness had settled over him. A tiredness he no longer wanted to ignore.

He reached the bedroom and the Rita there smiled at him as he prodded the bed to test its comfortableness. If that was even a word. The bed did indeed feel quite comfortable, so he got into it and lay his head down on the pillow. But he kept hold of his gun, because he wasn't a _complete_ idiot, and one of these Ritas might actually be a German double-agent.

"What day is it?" he asked.

"What day do you want it to be, sugar?"

He couldn't answer. He was too tired to think about that now. Exhausted, he closed his eyes and fell into a sleep so deep that he didn't feel it when a hedgehog came snuffling up to him because he lay in its path, and when the sun began to rise, revealing his bed of dirt and leaves, not even the light and the dawn chorus could rouse him.

* * *

 _This is a cliffhanger._


	59. The Bridge

We Were Soldiers

 _59\. The Bridge_

Bucky stared at the chunks of pale pink floating in runny, gelatinous white, and tried to decide whether he was hungry enough to eat shit-on-a-shingle. His stomach said _no_. So did his head. The camp cook standing behind the dented metal gastronorm container stared at him long and hard, a ladle full of slop poised in one hand.

"Are you gonna hold your meal tray out, or am I just gonna dump this on your boots?" the guy asked at last.

He held out his tray. A hard biscuit was deposited on it, then drowned in the ladle full of disgusting white. "Thanks," he said, and turned away from the serving area so the next guy in the line could take his turn at feeling revolted. Biggs was sitting alone at a table, so Bucky joined him. For a few minutes they merely pushed the pink blobs around the white liquid, and Bucky finally took the plunge. It tasted as bad as ever. Not even a smidgen of salt for seasoning.

Opposite him, Biggs was silent. His ear was a bird's nest of stitches, the skin around it red and black and purple. The past couple of days had not been easy on the private. He'd gone back to blaming himself for the deaths. Begged again to be banned from combat missions. Wouldn't listen when Bucky and Gusty tried to talk sense to him. Bucky had very nearly show him _the letter_ , or at least the part of it where Wells had foreshadowed his own death. Common sense stopped him. Wells wouldn't have wanted that letter read by anybody else, and it wouldn't have cheered Biggs up in the slightest.

Whilst Biggs agonised over his perceived role in the death of his friends, Bucky had agonised over what to do about that damn letter. He couldn't keep it in his footlocker, because if anything happened to _him_ , somebody might go through his stuff and find it. And that would probably be okay if it was Gusty or Biggs, but he didn't think anybody else would understand. Anybody else might hand it in to the brass, and that would be Wells' posthumous reputation in tatters. Maybe even Bucky's, too.

He couldn't burn it, either. It was all he had left of his friend. And despite how wrong it was for a guy to have _those feelings_ for another guy, he couldn't help but feel just a tiny, little bit flattered that his friend cared about him enough to put his heart and soul into a letter. He suspected Wells didn't put his heart and soul into much. Certainly not religion. Definitely not family. This was the one small part of Wells that Bucky _could_ keep safe. The words had been written and could never be unwritten. Wells was gone, but his feelings had been real. Regardless of how inappropriate they were, Bucky couldn't bring himself to destroy something that had meant so much to his friend.

He put down his spoon and reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, letting his fingertips brush against the corner of the envelope, making sure the letter was still there. On his person was the safest place for the letter to be, but he worried constantly over it somehow falling out of his jacket, even though it was an inside pocket, even though it was fastened with a small button.

Reassured that he hadn't lost the letter since he'd last checked for it, all of seven minutes ago, he turned his attention back to Biggs.

"How's your breakfast, Biggs?"

Biggs continued pushing the bits of chipped beef around the white sauce. Didn't even bother looking up. "Terrible."

Bucky nodded. "Did Doc Peacock tell you when you can go back to have your stitches removed?"

"Day after tomorrow."

Bucky nodded again. Biggs had fallen out with him because he wouldn't take the private off combat ops. After Bucky had refused, Biggs had gone to the command tent and _demanded_ of the colonels that they bar him from being sent into combat. The colonels had refused, and ordered a psychological evaluation for the private. None of the camp's doctors were qualified to perform psych evals. It would have to wait until they reached civilisation.

"Okay. Well. I'll see you back at the tent, maybe."

He took his half-eaten food to the scrap bucket and dumped what was left. Rinsed his tray using luke-warm soapy water, and stepped outside the mess. Almost as soon as he was outside, a heavy hand was clapped atop his shoulder.

"Barnes!" said Dugan. "Glad I found you. We have a two o'clock poker game behind the 69th's tent. Whaddya say?"

"No thanks."

"But Private Jones said he could whup your ass! You're not gonna let that slide, are you?"

Bucky shrugged. "I don't wanna play poker right now."

"Go fish, then?"

"No thanks."

"We could shoot dice."

"I'm not in the mood for games."

Dugan's moustache danced to the sigh he heaved out. "Barnes, you can't mope forever. Tell you what, why don't we go and hide some of Stark's doohickeys? Seeing him frantically searching for his stuff ought to cheer you up. Right?"

"Thanks, but I have stuff to do."

"Stuff!" Dugan scoffed. "What the hell is there to do out here?"

"I have a book to read."

"Sergeant Barnes?" A private from the 9th appeared, earning Bucky's gratitude for his excellent timing. Ever since the mission to recover the supplies had gone sideways, Dugan had been trying to cajole him into games. He didn't seem to realise that all Bucky wanted was to be left alone. He didn't need cheering up. _Sad_ was an appropriate frame of mind for someone who'd lost his best army friend, and Bucky wanted to feel the sadness, not push it away. "Colonel Phillips wants to see you in the command tent."

"Alright, Private, I'm on my way," he said. "Sorry, Dugan, looks like you'll have to fool someone else into taking the fall for you stealing Stark's stuff."

Bucky left Dugan spluttering in protest of his innocence. "Borrowing" Stark's things had been fun with Wells as a co-conspirator. With Dugan? He just didn't think it would be the same.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Colonel William Taylor had never heard of the SSR before happening across their camp. They were a motley assortment of branches poorly kitten out for open warfare, but his own battalion had been decimated by German opposition after they'd become separated from the main army, so he was simply glad to encounter friendly faces. He and the dozen of his men who'd survived the thrust into northern Italy stumbled into the encampment early in the morning, and Colonel Taylor was taken to see their CO right away.

Colonel Phillips was a grizzled veteran whose sharp grey eyes assessed Taylor keenly. Colonel Taylor was aware he didn't—at present—cut a particularly impressive figure; his uniform was soiled and bloody, his hair was in disarray, and the glass in one side of his spectacles was broken. Still, he managed to stand straight and proud as he explained his situation to Colonel Phillips. The man nodded along, and finally agreed to assist. He sent for his best man, and Colonel Taylor made small talk while he waited. At least, he _tried_. Colonel Phillips turned out to be taciturn and reluctant to chat.

A few minutes later, a sergeant appeared and offered a tired salute. The young man looked worn, and if his blue-grey eyes weren't fixed at a thousand yards, they weren't so very far off. Colonel Taylor straightened up again as he waited for the beleaguered sergeant to announce whichever officer Colonel Phillips had sent for.

"Sergeant Barnes, this is Colonel Taylor of the 6th Ranger Battalion," Colonel Phillips said.

"Sir," the sergeant greeted him, with another tired salute.

That was when Colonel Taylor realised _this_ was the man Colonel Phillips had sent for. It must be a joke!

"Colonel Phillips," Taylor said, "perhaps I didn't quite stress enough the importance of this mission. If it fails, the whole of northern Italy will be lost. The mission calls for some enterprising Major, or at the very least a Captain." _Not some shell-shocked young sergeant_ , he mentally added.

"Colonel, you stressed the importance good and plenty," Phillips shot back. "It just so happens that Sergeant Barnes has a certain flair for sneaking behind enemy lines and committing acts of sabotage. Isn't that right, Sergeant Barnes?"

"Yessir," the sergeant agreed dully.

"But…" Colonel Phillips sighed reluctantly, "…if you would feel more at ease with somebody a little more seasoned along on the mission, I could send Agent Carter, as well."

"Agent Carter?" Taylor asked.

"The Special Operations Executive's attaché to the SSR, and one of the SOE's finest agents. Carter's been active since early in the war, sabotaging Nazi plans even before we joined in."

"Very well," Taylor agreed. Perhaps with a man of Carter's experience along on the mission, it wouldn't be doomed to failure at the hands of a mere sergeant.

Phillips sent for Carter. Sergeant Barnes waited at his ease. There was a ghost of a smile on his lips, and Taylor didn't like seeing it there. It was a secretive smile, one that made him feel uncomfortable, like Sergeant Barnes had just told himself a private joke at Colonel Taylor's expense.

A young woman stepped into the tent, and Colonel Taylor felt himself relax a little. It had been a long, perilous fight to the north of the country, and he was sorely in need of a cup of coffee. Since this was Phillips' camp, however, Taylor waited for the other man to request a drink from the woman first.

"Agent Carter, this is Colonel Taylor of the 6th Ranger Battalion," Colonel Phillips said.

"Sir," the woman said, with a rigid salute.

Colonel Taylor couldn't help but stare. At the same time, he felt an angry flush creep up his neck. Colonel Phillips had made a fool out of him! It was bad enough that he'd been made commander of a battalion half full of blacks and Nips. Bad enough that most of his force had been captured or killed during the northward advance. He _wouldn_ _'t_ tolerate this sort of mockery from another Colonel!

"Colonel Taylor has a very important mission which needs to be undertaken," Phillips was saying. The man turned to face him, his grey eyes insufferably calm. Sergeant Barnes was practically _grinning_. Only, the grin didn't quite reach his troubled blue eyes. "Colonel, would you like to brief Sergeant Barnes and Agent Carter on the nature of the mission, or shall I take over from here?"

Taylor forced his hands, which had clenched themselves into fists, to uncurl. He'd had no choice but to turn to Phillips for help. If the mission somehow succeeded, then Taylor would still technically be the one in command. If the mission failed… well, he could hardly be blamed for the failures of another colonel's personnel, could he?

Stepping forward, he cleared his throat.

"One week ago, I sent a small company of men under the command of Captain Jonathan James to take and hold a route of strategic importance," he began. "A vital Nazi supply chain runs across a bridge, which provides the only access to Austria in this area that is traversable by wagons. Destroying this bridge will mean the Nazis have to take a considerable detour north, adding days to their journey. My men did not have the ordnance to destroy the bridge themselves, but they were to be met two days ago by a squad from one of the airborne divisions, who would bring along enough TNT to blow the whole thing to kingdom come."

"What went wrong?" Agent Carter asked.

"I received word that the airborne division were killed en route, and their cargo undoubtedly co-opted by the Krauts," he said. "My men will hold the bridge for as long as they draw breath, but unless we can get explosives up there, and fast, their position will soon be overrun. We won't get a second chance at this."

"Sergeant Barnes," Phillips said, "a small force could penetrate the Nazi line and make it to the bridge on foot in less than twenty-four hours."

"I already have a team in mind, Colonel," Sergeant Barnes said. If he was excited about the prospect of fighting Nazis, he gave no indication of it. His eyes lacked any animation at all.

Colonel Taylor cleared his throat again, to throw a minor spanner in the works. "You should know, intel suggests the Nazis have a small armoured cavalry contingent in that area. Lighter tanks, mostly, nothing as big as a Tiger, but they could prove to be troublesome for your 'small force.'"

"Agent Carter," Phillips spoke up, "before you leave, see Mr. Stark. I believe he's been working on a new tank-buster weapon and he's been itching to try it out. And I meant that literally; I've been finding his skin flakes everywhere."

"Stark?" Taylor asked. Surely had had misheard. "As in, Howard Stark?"

"The very same."

Colonel Taylor opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. Felt like a damn fish out of water. Finally, he found a way to save face.

"You brought a _civilian_ to a war zone?"

"The SSR is not a traditional army outfit," Phillips said.

Taylor huffed quietly as Sergeant Barnes and Agent Carter saluted and left. "Yes. I can see that, Colonel."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Captain James rubbed the gritty tiredness from his eyes, and peered over the boulder behind which he was sheltered, to the far side of the bridge. Morning was on them, and there was just enough light to see by. Enough light to see the grey tank rolling its way down the steep road. Enough light to see the horde of Krauts lurking on the other side of the bridge, waiting like cowards for the tank to do their work for them.

He reached into his bandolier and brought out his last ammo clip. Before pushing it into his M1, he kissed the clip and swore to God he'd make every shot count. If this was his final stand, he'd take eight of those sons of bitches with him.

Behind him, dark-skinned Private Clarke was praying in a hushed whisper. Captain James could just about make out the words of the Lord's Prayer whisked by the gentle wind from the Private's mouth straight to heaven. He himself couldn't pray. Not now. Not aloud. Not in front of the men. They'd need a goddamn miracle to get them through this day alive, and an act of divine providence to deliver the explosives needed to complete their mission. He wasn't sure whether he believed in miracles anymore.

"How's it going, Sergeant?" he asked of the man who was laid out a short distance away, behind the trunk of a fallen tree. Sergeant Kagawa mumbled something too quiet for James to hear. Might even have been something in Japanese. The man had lost a lot of blood, and only the tourniquet on his arm had stopped him bleeding out. He was delirious with pain despite the morphine they'd given him. Colonel Taylor had expressed doubts about Kagawa and the rest of the Japanese-Americans fighting in Europe, but Kagawa had been hit when he'd taken on a full squad of Krauts single-handed. As far as James was concerned, the Nips were just as good as anyone else out here.

Corporal Byrd sparked up his last cigarette, then slid his last round of Colt ammo into his sidearm. "They say your first smoke is the sweetest," he said around his cigarette. "Personally, I think the last one's the sweetest. But you know what? I'd trade it right this second for a howitzer. Maybe a bazooka."

"You ever think that maybe we should stop holding the bridge?" Lieutenant Astley called from his own shelter of rocks and bushes. "I mean, we can't hold out against those Krauts, much less the tank they have rolling down to join the party. We have no way of blowing the bridge ourselves, and it's only a matter of time before the Krauts overwhelm us."

"Our orders are to hold the bridge, Lieutenant," Captain James said. He was too tired to summon anger. When had been the last time he'd slept? Two days ago? Three? "And hold the bridge is what we're gonna do. If you wanna leave, then leave. But you know what we do to deserters."

There was no argument after that. They all knew they were going to die, but dying honourably in the name of the mission was better than living as a coward and deserter.

As the tank rolled closer, he rolled his shoulders, trying to work some of the knots and aches from his exhausted muscles. Around him, the few men he had left said their final prayers. Brought out the pictures of loved ones left back home. Crossed their hands over their chests as they tried to invoke some measure of spiritual protection. Captain James wasn't sure if God was even watching anymore.

He peered over his boulder. The Nazis were making another push forward, braver now that they had a tank at their back. He glanced back at his men, and nodded.

"Let them have it."

They lifted themselves up, peering over and around their meagre cover. The air was filled with the _crack_ and _bang_ of gunfire. The sound echoed down into the canyon, amplified a thousand times by the depth of the gorge and the shape of the mountain walls, so that it seemed a terrific battle was being waged by a whole army of men. Perhaps _that_ would get God's attention.

A few bullets found their mark. Several Nazis went tumbling down over the low stone wall. Then, the tank cleared the bridge head, and Captain James saw its turret swing as its gunner took aim. He closed his eyes, and pictured his wife's smiling face.

" _Light 'em up, Hodge!"_

His eyes flew open at the command from behind. Before he could turn, he heard the hiss and whistle of a heavy, recoilless high-energy weapon fired nearby. Something shot across the canyon, exploding against the side of the tank. The vehicle slid sideways, crashing into the stone wall.

" _Biggs!"_

A second weapon was fired, the same hiss and whistle. The next projectile hit the tank in almost the same place, and the whole thing exploded in a fireball. The force of the blast sent it even further back, and the stone wall gave way. The tank went sliding over the side, hurtling to the bottom of the canyon as it burned.

The enemy ground forces recovered swiftly; they advanced, shooting wildly, while Captain James and his men sank quickly back down to cover. A small group of soldiers appeared from the forest behind him, a young sergeant at their head. He lifted his M1 and returned fire whilst a pair of sharpshooters—a tall, stocky man and a small, slender woman…a _woman!_ …—took aim and fired at the Krauts on the bridge. More soldiers poured out from beneath the trees, each of them firing rifles, except for the two who carried some style of rocket launcher James had never seen before.

He could think only one thing. _God has answered our prayers._ Tears stung his eyes when he realised he and his men were no longer alone. They hadn't been forgotten. Backup had come, and now his men would live to fight another day.

The fight was soon over; the Krauts on the bridge, out in the open, hadn't stood a chance. They'd relied on their tank to shield them, and with their shield gone, they'd fallen swiftly. The young sergeant approached Captain James and offered a salute. Now that he was closer, he didn't seem so young. His lower face was rough with stubble, and his eyes had seen death; it was a look he himself was more than familiar with.

"Captain James?" the man asked, a strong New York accent on his tongue. "I'm Sergeant Barnes, 107th Infantry. Colonel Taylor sent us to help you complete your mission."

Captain James pushed himself to his feet and returned the salute. "Colonel Taylor… he's alive?" He'd had doubts the rest of the battalion would survive. So many had already been captured or killed when Taylor sent James and his men to hold this bridge.

"Yessir, and waiting for you at the SSR's camp."

He shook his head. "SSR?"

"I can explain on the way back." Sergeant Barnes looked around at the exhausted men. "Do you have wounded?"

"Yes. Sergeant Kagawa." He gestured to the fallen tree. "He's behind the trunk."

"Gusty, see to the sergeant."

A corporal appeared, first aid kit in his hands and a portable stretcher strapped to his back. He was followed by a private, the biggest man Captain James had ever seen, and one of the two who'd fired the anti-tank rounds.

"That's an impressive piece of technology," he said, eyeing up the bazooka-style weapon that the second man was holding.

"Yeah," Sergeant Barnes agreed. "You'll no doubt hear all about how it works when we get back to camp."

"Sarge, Ah got movement on the other side of the canyon," one of the snipers drawled in a marked Texan accent. "Looks like the Nazis are regrouping. Won't be long before they start firin' at us again."

"Take them out," the sergeant instructed. "Agent Carter, how's it coming?"

The woman had put down her sniper rifle and was busy assembling some sort of… contraption. That was the only way Captain James could describe it. A _contraption._

"Just about done," she said, her voice lilting in a pleasantly cultured English accent. Most men would've been red-faced over being saved by a dame, but most men hadn't lost almost their entire team holding a target against an overwhelming enemy force. Captain James just couldn't bring himself to care that Sergeant Barnes had brought a dame along. The woman picked up the contraption, which looked like a cross between a bazooka and a gramophone, and fiddled with one of the dials on the top. "How long should I set the timers for?"

Sergeant Barnes' brow furrowed in thought. "Hmm. Last time I blew something up, we misjudged the time by about thirty seconds." A sad smile played across his lips before his eyes leapt up to the woman's face. "Three minutes? Same time it takes to boil… well, never mind. Just set it to three minutes. I'll get Gusty moving with the injured man first. We'll need to come back after, to make sure the job's been done."

"Err, excuse me, ma'am," Captain James spoke up, "but just what the heck _is_ that thing?"

"This," she sighed, "is an experimental Composition C-2 launcher."

"You mean—"

"Yes," said Sergeant Barnes. "It fires and glues plastic explosive to whatever you aim it at. You're probably gonna want to stand behind Agent Carter when she pulls the trigger." As if on cue, the man with the sniper rifle began firing at the far side of the bridge. Sergeant Barnes unclipped one of the bandoliers he wore across his chest and tossed it to Captain James. "Gusty, are you ready to go?"

"Ready, Sarge," the corporal replied. He and the large private had Sergeant Kagawa strapped to the stretcher, of which they each carried one end. "We'll meet you at the rendezvous point."

"Captain," yelled Sergeant Barnes, as he began firing at the Krauts on the other side of the bridge, "you'll want to order your men to follow Corporal Ferguson, whilst you stay here with me and Tex to keep those Nazis back so that Agent Carter can handle the C-2 launcher."

He'd heard enough orders in his time to know when he'd been given one. And he'd worked with enough sergeants in his time to know to listen to their suggestions. Despite the man's youth, he obviously knew what he was doing. There was no tremor of excitement or nervousness in his voice, and the hands which fired the M1 were steadier than James'.

"Men, fall back," he instructed as he clipped the bandolier around his chest. "I'll be right behind you."

They quickly helped each other up and hurried after Corporal Ferguson. The rest of Sergeant Barnes' team flanked them, and within a few seconds they were out of sight.

He resumed his position behind the cover of the boulder, but this time he didn't kiss the ammo clip before loading it into his rifle. This time, he had enough bullets for _everybody._ He and Barnes kept up a steady stream of _bang bang bangs_ whilst the deadly sniper rifle quietly _cracked_ at slightly longer intervals. Agent Carter, meanwhile, crouched low and aimed her C-2 launcher at one of the bridge's stone supports. That done, she switched to the other side and fired at another stone leg, then called, "Two minutes left!"

"I said _three_ minutes," Sergent Barnes scowled. " _Three._ "

"When I saw the second tank coming down the road, I thought two would work better," she said, pointing up at the road above. Sure enough, there was another tank.

"Shit. Alright, let's go. Tex, get a move on, it's gonna be close."

Captain James didn't need telling twice. He was hot on the heels of the others, feeling bullets miss him by margins too narrow for his liking. They ran, and after almost two minutes of running, they stopped and took shelter behind the trunks of the largest trees they could find. Just as Captain James was about to ask why they'd run so far, he heard a thunderous explosion, and seconds later was buffeted by a brief but violent wind.

At Sergeant Barnes' command, they stepped out from behind the trees. Agent Carter pinned back a lock of hair that had worked its way loose during their flight.

"Howard always over-does his explosions," she said.

"I'm almost afraid to go check it out," Sergeant Barnes said, though he didn't look anything like afraid.

When they reached the bridge, Captain James' mouth fell open in surprise. He'd been expecting the C-2 to weaken the bridge legs and send chunks of it falling into the canyon below. Instead, the whole damn thing was just gone. Where there had been a bridge, there was now just a canyon, the mountain walls blackened with scorch marks. On the other side of the canyon, the tank was perched unmoving on the road. Probably asking for new orders, now that its only route across was gone.

"It's like he's over-compensating for something," Agent Carter mused as she glanced at the bridgeless gorge.

"Time to go," said Sergeant Barnes.

They found the rest of the men in a clearing a few minutes' walk away from the bridge's former location. The corporal and the huge private were seeing to Sergeant Kagawa's injuries, and Private Clarke was with them, offering Kagawa the comfort of another prayer, this one a prayer of thanks. The other men in Sergeant Barnes' team were divvying out ammo and breaking open their ration kits. Captain James offered his men reassuring nods as he walked amongst them. They looked bone-weary, and he knew just how they felt.

"Sir," said Lieutenant Astley, standing up as straight as his tired legs and aching back could manage, "I want to apologise for what I said earlier. I shouldn't have questioned your orders. You were right."

"Don't worry about it, Astley," he said, patting his second-in-command on the shoulder. "It's water under the bridge. Or it would be, if the bridge was still there."

"Then the mission was a success?"

For the first time in three days, he smiled. "It was."

Sergeant Barnes turned away to address everyone in the clearing. "We eat breakfast on the move, and so long as we don't encounter hostiles, we'll stop for a proper lunch. Gusty, you and Biggs keep an eye on Sergeant Kagawa, and let me know if you need a break or he needs to be put down. Hodge, you're on point with Tex. Mex, Agent Carter, you've got our six. Stay sharp, everyone, we're behind enemy lines and we just made one hell of a noise. Captain, I know you and your men are tired, but we've gotta march till nightfall, and then we can let you have a few hours of sleep."

"Don't worry about us; if you can handle Kagawa, we'll keep up."

They set off through the forest, each of them silent, his men due to exhaustion, Barnes' men due to the fact they were munching on dreadful K-ration chocolate. Sergeant Barnes didn't eat; his eyes scanned the forest continually, as if expecting Nazis to come popping out of thin air. Yet, he carried his rifle low, in a position designed for comfort, not defence.

"I'm sorry for your losses," the man said after a while. When Captain James aimed a questioning glance at him, he said, "Colonel Taylor told me he sent twenty-five of you to hold that bridge."

He nodded. "Thanks. And I'm sorry for yours, too." He received a questioning glance in return. "It's not hard to tell when a guy's lost friends. Do you do this often?" he asked, gesturing around at the men, at the mission.

"You'd be surprised."

Sergeant Barnes left the conversation there. He fell back to walk beside the big private carrying one end of the stretcher. After a few minutes, James heard the sergeant speak quietly to the other man.

"See, Biggs, you're not cursed. This time you _saved_ lives."

Captain James wasn't sure what that meant. He wasn't sure he even _wanted_ to know. Right now, he was too exhausted to think beyond the next footstep. For once, he was happy to follow someone else for a change. Later, he'd have letters to write to families. An officer's work was never done.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

When Bucky and his tired team arrived back at camp, they found it abuzz with activity. Men were running back and forth with armfuls of ammo. Doctors and nurses were prepping the hospital tent. The tanks were being fuelled. Captain James and his men stared blankly at the action taking place around them. When Dum Dum ran past from the Quartermaster's tent, two boxes of shotgun ammo in his hands, Bucky called out to him.

"Hey, Dugan, what's goin' on?"

The big man grinned. "Barnes, you made it back just in time! We've got a new party to crash. No doubt the colonel will tell you all about it." And with that, he was off.

Bucky turned back to his team. "Gusty, Biggs, take Sergeant Kagawa to the hospital tent. Show the rest of the men the way; they could probably use a check-up. The rest of you head back to the 107th's tent, but don't get too comfortable. Sounds like we might be leaving again soon. Captain, you better accompany me to the command tent; we'll probably find your colonel there, and he'll want to know your mission was a success."

Captain James nodded, and everybody else obeyed. Bucky set off to the command tent with Captain James—and Agent Carter, of course—in tow. There they found all three colonels, along with Mr. Stark, Dr. Peacock and the chaplain.

"Sir," Bucky said, offering a salute which his two companions echoed, "mission complete."

"Hmph," Phillips grunted. There was a small, self-satisfied smile on his lips which was extinguished a moment later. "Good work, Sergeant. Captain James and Agent Carter can debrief us later. Are your men fresh enough to join the taskforce on the upcoming mission?"

"Yessir." They'd marched hard but slept well enough overnight. A quick meal in the mess would see them fit enough to head out again within the hour. "What's the objective?"

"Ever hear of Azzano?" Phillips asked, to which Bucky shook his head. "You will soon enough." The colonel gestured at a map on the table, and the red X marker which had been placed there. "We just received word that the Nazis are en route to capture Azzano. It's on our side of the line, but it won't be for very long if those Nazis aren't stopped. The town is in a strategically important location; we can't let it fall into enemy hands."

"We'll stop them, sir," Bucky assured him.

"That's what I was hoping to hear. Report to Captain Banks; he's leading the mission."

Bucky saluted and turned to leave. Before he reached the door, Captain James caught up to him, stepping in front of him and offering his hand.

"Before you go, Sergeant, I'd just like to thank you for saving my men. You and your team are a credit to the SSR. I hope that when you get back, and we get somewhere a little more civilised, you'll let me buy the first round of beers."

Bucky accepted and shook the proffered hand, and for the first time in many long days, found a reason to smile. Yesterday he'd saved a handful of men. It was a small victory, compared to the numbers being lost every day across the battlefield, but perhaps that was the point. You had to take your small victories where you could find them, and maybe those small victories would add up. Maybe one day, enough small victories would pool together to form one larger, final victory. And on that day, he'd buy a round of drinks for the friends he'd lost. He'd toast their memories, and the sacrifices they'd made.

But first, he had a town to defend.

* * *

 _This is also a cliffhanger._


	60. Goodbyes

We Were Soldiers

 _60\. Goodbyes_

The twin pieces of metal felt cold against his chest. He could hear them jingling quietly every time he leant forward to take another spoonful of stew from his bowl. Thanks to Dr. Erskine's serum, Steve's appetite had increased five-fold, but today Mrs. Barnes had filled his stomach to bursting point, just like she had when he'd been a gangly, scrawny kid. Thick stew laden with chunky vegetables and fat-rich dumplings, a mountain of freshly baked crusty bread, an apple pie warming in the oven… she really had outdone herself.

He glanced up to tell her for the third time that everything was delicious, and found five pairs of eyes fixed on him. Mr. Barnes was doing an admirable job of watching Steve whilst polishing off his bowl of soup, but everybody else had barely touched their food. He couldn't blame them for staring. Though he'd written to Bucky's family and told them about his transformation, this was the first time they'd actually seen him since Project Rebirth had made a new man outta him. As they watched, he felt a hot blush creep slowly up his neck. He cleared his throat.

"The soup's wonderful, Mrs. Barnes. Much better than anything I've had on tour."

His comment elicited a smile from Bucky's mom. "Well, I know vegetable stew is your favourite, and I can hardly send you off without giving you your favourite meal."

"Seriously," said Charlie, his unused spoon in his hand, "you could play football. Professionally. In any position. Maybe in _all_ the positions. You could render team sports obsolete."

Steve smiled. When he'd been fourteen years old, Charlie had been taller, heavier and more solidly built than twenty-one year old Steve. Charlie had lighter hair than his older brother, and darker eyes, but he'd inherited the same good looks which seemed to bless the Barnes family. Like Bucky, he'd never had problems attracting girls. Unlike Bucky, he'd mostly just stuck with the same one.

"Kids, don't stare; it's very rude," Mrs. Barnes said. She didn't seem to realise she was staring at his forearms.

Chastised by their mother, they all tucked into lunch. When Steve had written to Bucky's folks, to let them know he'd be along to see them before heading off to war, he hadn't expected Bucky's brother and sisters to show up, too. Mary-Ann had travelled all the way from Baltimore to say goodbye, whilst Janet and Charlie were skipping classes for the day. To Steve, who, growing up, had spent more time in the Barnes' house than in the apartment his mom rented, it was just like old times. _Almost_ like old times. There was one person still missing from the scene of domestic familiarity.

"So, Janet," Steve said, turning to the youngest Barnes child. Sixteen years old, she was a slimmer, shorter version of Rosalie Barnes. She had her mother's smile, and eyes exactly the same shade as Bucky's. "Next time I'm in New York, you might be away at college. Are you planning to go to Vassar, like Mary-Ann?"

Janet offered a quick shrug of her dainty shoulders. "Maybe. I haven't decided yet."

"You'll love Poughkeepsie," Mary-Ann said. "It's positively charming."

"If I do decide to go," Janet pointed out. "I might just get a job."

"You can get better jobs if you have a college education."

"All you're doing with your college education is building ships. You don't even need a high school diploma, to do that."

"It's only until we win the war," Mary-Ann said, stiffening in her seat. "Then I'll go back to teaching."

"Girls, don't argue at the dinner table," Mrs. Barnes sighed. "Or any table, for that matter. It's Steve's last real day in America; let's not give him a reason to want to stay in Europe."

"Sorry, Mom," the girls chimed in unison.

Steve decided to move the conversation onto a slightly safer topic. "How's work treating you, Mary-Ann?"

"It's tiring," she admitted. "Long shifts in cold shipyards… but it's worth it. Which reminds me; when you're en route to Europe, check the metal panel behind the first lifeboat from the front of the ship. You'll be able to tell if you're travelling on one of the Liberty ships I worked on, because I etch every panel in that location with a Shakespearean quote. A different quote for every ship."

"Actually, I'll be going by plane," he admitted.

"You'll be flying across the Atlantic ocean?" Charlie grinned, a sparkle of excitement in his grey eyes.

Steve nodded. "Landing on Sicily. I've never been on a plane before, so I hope I don't get travel-sick." Anya and the other girls who'd be accompanying the show to Europe would never let him live it down, if he vomited on the plane.

An hour later, everybody was as full as Steve. Charlie excused himself and went upstairs for an afternoon nap. Mrs. Barnes herded Mary-Ann and Janet into the kitchen, to help her with dishes. Steve offered to help, as he did every time she cooked for him, but she refused. She never had let him help with the dishes, and she never would.

Mr. Barnes went to the solid oak drinks cabinet where he kept his finest liquors, and poured two small measures of bourbon. He brought the glasses back to the table, with a small wooden box tucked beneath his arm. He handed one of the glasses to Steve, then raised his in toast.

"To your health," Mr. Barnes offered. He gave a quiet grunt as he ran his eyes over Steve's body. "Not that you need it."

They clinked glasses and Steve drank his whiskey in a single gulp. It burned on the way down and made his eyes water. His stomach grumbled about the additional liquid he was putting in it.

With the drinks out of the way, Mr. Barnes opened up the wooden box revealing several long, dark cigars. A smile tugged at Steve's lips. It was a yearly custom. Every Christmas, Bucky bullied Steve into having Christmas dinner at the Barnes' house. Every year, after dinner, and whilst the girls and Mrs. Barnes were clearing away the table, Mr. Barnes took Bucky and Steve, and sometimes Charlie, onto the back porch to finish off their evening of excess with a cigar. If Mr. Barnes was bringing the cigars out now, it could mean only one thing: he didn't expect Steve—or Bucky—to be back in time for Christmas.

"Care to join me outside, Steve?"

"Mr. Barnes, you know smoking isn't good for my—" He stopped as his own objection reached his ears. In the past, if his asthma was okay at Christmas, he had a cigar, even though he wasn't all that keen on the taste. If his asthma was bad, he loitered further down the porch, trying to avoid the clouds of smoke. "Huh. Guess I don't have to worry about my asthma anymore."

There was a crispness to the air outside. Steve didn't feel the cold like he used to, but he still wished the season was changing the _other_ way, heading towards summer, instead of winter. Mr. Barnes clipped the ends of two cigars, then brought out his Zippo, holding the flame to Steve first. For a couple of minutes they puffed in silence, and Steve watched the clouds drift slowly by overhead. The weather seemed fine for an early morning flight.

Finally, he worked up the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on his mind ever since his talk with Terrence, in the lobby of the Velvet Lounge back in California.

"Mr. Barnes? I've heard that war… that it can change a man."

He realised after he finished speaking that it wasn't actually a _question_ , but Mr. Barnes seemed to understand what he wanted to know. He nodded slowly, his blue eyes thoughtful as he considered how to answer.

"It would be more accurate to say that it _affects_ a man," he said at last. "And it affects every man differently. Some come out stronger. Some come out broken. Some, like you say, are changed, not necessarily for the better or worse, but just changed in how they see things, and how they understand things."

Steve stared down at the smoke from his cigar curling over his hands. His large, meaty hands which could do good or could do harm, depending on how he used them.

"Are you worried that he's changed, or that you have?" Mr. Barnes asked, cutting right to the heart of Steve's doubts.

"Both," he admitted. "I know the chances of me finding him out there are slim. It's a big continent, and I've no idea where he is. But what if we end up in the same place, at the same time? What if I look right at him, and don't recognise him? What if he looks at me, and sees only a stranger?"

"War is tough," Mr. Barnes said. His eyes looked wispy, and Steve wondered if he was thinking back to his own time in the Great War. "It's harsh, and cruel, and sometimes it's unjust. But some things are more powerful than violence. Once, when I was younger, a few years before before the kids came along, I was travelling back from Washington state with an older cousin of mine, Frankie Barnes. We'd been on a coast-to-coast road railroad trip, a sort of guys' sojourn away from home, and just as we reached Idaho, the train got turned back at the border by the army.

"We didn't know it then, but a wildfire was raging out of control. Now they call it the _Devil_ _'s Broom fire,_ and for good reason; it was such a ferocious firestorm that when we got back to New York, Rose told me they could see the smoke all the way across the country. It burned for two days, and took four before the army would let anyone travel through Idaho. Whole towns were destroyed, and eighty-seven people lost their lives.

"Frankie and I, we hopped off at a station in one of the towns still standing to stretch our legs before the next part of the journey. We could see how close the flames had come; the trees all around the town were burnt to a cinder, and only heavy rainfall had stopped the fire consuming the entire town. While we were there, I saw one of the men from the National Forest Service inspecting the ground where the trees had turned to ash. I asked him, how could the forest ever recover from such devastation? Would the landscape ever be the same again?

"He took me to an area that had been badly scorched, and crouched down to brush away some of the ash and charcoal. As he swept it aside, I saw something tiny and green; a new shoot. It had been only a couple of days since the forest had been destroyed, but already nature was replenishing it. He said, that was the way of things. That fires destroyed the old trees to make room for new growth.

"Sometimes, I think of war as I think of that fire. A dark, terrible, destructive force. But no matter how hard it rages, it can't destroy everything. There are always seeds waiting to germinate. Tiny green shoots ready to spring up with the first rain. Love, friendship, hope, trust… they're the seeds that war can never truly destroy. They're the light within the darkness, and they can grow as tall as mighty redwoods, if they're given the chance. No matter how hard war hits you, something of you will remain. Sometimes it's buried deep, but that's because the deepest places are safest from the heat of the fire. Never give up hope, Steve. Not for yourself, not for Bucky, not for the millions of men fighting for freedom. Hope is the one thing that can survive when everything else dies."

Steve blinked back the tears pooling in his eyes. Mr. Barnes was right. Steve himself was living proof that there was always hope. He'd been a sickly baby; the doctors hadn't expected him to survive. He'd proved them wrong. Then they told his mom he probably wouldn't live past his fifth birthday. They'd proven the doctors wrong together. And when the army enlistment staff had said _no_ , he'd kept pushing until somebody had said _yes_. Bucky was strong. If anybody could come through the war unscarred by the horrors of it, it would be Steve's best friend. And if Bucky had been affected by war, _changed_ by it, then Steve would just have to bring him home and remind him of who he really was: a good man.

Part of him wanted to stay on that porch letting his cigar burn down forever, but he had one final visit to make. When he told Mr. Barnes it was time for him to go, Charlie was wakened and the rest of the family came out from the kitchen. Mr. Barnes shook his hand and gave him a meaningful nod that said, _remember_. Charlie pulled him into a back-slapping hug, then promptly shuffled back, in many ways still an awkward teenager.

Mrs. Barned hugged him. The scent of her perfume—jasmine, vanilla and something floral Steve couldn't even begin to guess at—tickled his nose, but he let her hold him close against her for as long as she needed. When she pulled away, her cheeks were damp, and she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief she pulled out of thin air.

"Look at you," she said, reaching up to cup his face with one warm hand. Her touch was soft, so much like the touch of his mother as he'd sat by her deathbed. "So brave. So grown up. I remember a time when the top of your head barely reached my shoulder."

"Yeah, that was only three months ago," Charlie grinned. He had Bucky's grin, and everybody laughed.

"If you see my son out there, tell him to be careful," Mrs. Barnes said. "And tell him we love him and miss him very much."

"And tell him to kick Nazi ass," Charlie added.

Mrs. Barnes hugged him one last time, then passed him on to Mary-Ann, who hugged him just as tight.

"You've always been like a second big brother to me," she whispered as she squeezed the life out of his lungs. "Take care of yourself, Steve. I want _both_ my big brothers to come home after the war."

"I promise I'll be careful," he said, with what little air was left in his lungs. She had a grip like a vice! "You know me."

"Yes, and I also know that, according to a newspaper article one of my roommates showed me, you can't even walk down a street in Brooklyn without getting into a back-alley fist-fight with Nazis."

Steve felt that damn blush creep up his neck again. So far, the Barnes family had very diplomatically avoided mentioning his exploits as Captain America. He didn't want to _be_ that. Not to Bucky's family. They knew him. The real him. They probably knew him better than he knew himself.

Mary-Ann managed to keep her tears in check. She pulled back so that Janet could fling herself into his arms to deliver a surprisingly delicate hug. When she too stepped back, he saw that Mrs. Barnes was crying again. For one brief, heart-stopping moment, he felt guilty for leaving them. They'd already seen one son and brother shipped out to war, and though Steve wasn't related by blood, they'd been his family for as long as he could remember. But the call to arms had sounded, and he could feel its beat pulsing in his veins. He couldn't ignore it. Not now. He wouldn't let Dr. Erskine's sacrifice be in vain.

"Are you sure I can't call you a cab?" Mr. Barnes asked.

Steve shook his head. "I want to walk through Brooklyn—" _one last time_ "—to remember what I'm fighting for." He took a deep breath. "I'll bring him home. I promise."

Mr. Barnes wrapped an arm around his wife's shoulders as Steve turned and walked away. Mrs. Barnes was sobbing, her cries muffled by the damp handkerchief which was no longer up to its job.

"Steve, wait!" Janet raced after him, throwing her arms around him again. "Take one for Bucky, as well," she said, quiet enough for only him to hear.

He brushed his fingers down her hair, and said, "I'll make sure he gets it."

When she let him go, he didn't look back. _Couldn_ _'t_ look back. He didn't want them to see the tears on his cheeks.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The gravel crunched loudly beneath his sturdy GI boots. The black leather had been polished until he could almost see his reflection. His shirt was neatly tucked in, and his jacket was no longer damp with Mrs. Barnes tears; it had dried during the walk to the florist.

In his arms he carried the largest, most colourful, most magnificent wreath that money could buy. The flowers were an explosion of colour against the olive drab of his uniform, and he couldn't help but smile at his mom's imaginary reproving admonishment. _You spent_ _ **how much**_ _on flowers?!_ Raising a child on her own, Mom had learnt to be thrifty. She wouldn't approve of such extravagance, but Steve was going to Europe, and he didn't know when he'd be back. He'd instructed the florist to keep up the delivery of smaller wreaths on a monthly basis, but he needed to lay this one for himself. Never before had he travelled so far from where his parents rested in eternal peace.

The cemetery was quiet, only a few individual mourners present. When Steve reached his parents' graves, he set the wreath between them, a bridge of colour over the uniform emerald grass. He sank to the ground uncaring of how the damp earth soaked his pants, and took a position between the two headstones.

"Hi Mom. Hi Dad. I'm sorry it's been so long. So much has happened to me over the past few months. I guess I should start at the beginning."

So he told them how Bucky had been deployed to Europe, how he himself had been given a chance with Project Rebirth. Told them all about his big change, and how it had opened doors that he hadn't even known were there. He complained about how long it had taken him to learn his lines, and how the dancers always moaned at him for stepping on their toes. He told them about Kevin, and Angelo, and Freddie the photographer.

He described his movies to them, and how it had been an eye-opener to see how the rest of America lived. How it had given him a new appreciation for home, despite Brooklyn's flaws. The sun was sinking low by the time he got around to telling them about the USO tour going to Europe. The rest of the mourners had left long ago, and Steve had the cemetery entirely to himself.

Reaching beneath the collar of his shirt, he hooked a finger around the ball chain and pulled out the two pieces of metal hanging there.

"I finally got there, Dad. This is who I am now. _Rogers. Steven G._ Soldier of the U.S. Army. I'm technically a Private, even though I haven't done my full basic training." He looked down at the tags, and tears sprang once more to his eyes when he read the name written on the third line. "When they stamped my tags, they asked me for my next of kin. I had to give them Mrs. Barnes' name. It should've been yours, or Mom's. Bucky's family are great, but I wish, just for once, that I didn't have to share. That I had a family all of my own."

He brushed his hand across his eyes before he could start blubbing like a kid. Jeez, he hadn't even left home yet, and he was already homesick! If Bucky could see him now, Steve was certain his friend would punch him hard on the arm and tell him to stop being so damn emotional. Bucky had probably said his goodbyes with a whistle and a smile and a spring in his step.

Shoving his tags back under his shirt, he looked down at the graves once more.

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't afraid of what I might find over there. What I might be asked to do. What I might be willing to do, if I see enough. I wish you were here to give me some advice, Dad. Mr. Barnes has given me plenty to think about, but hearing those things from you… well, they'd be an extra light in the darkness." He tapped his chest, indicating the pocket inside his jacket where he kept the locket his mom had given him all those years ago. "You're always with me. Both of you. And you'll be with me in Europe, too. I want to have something real to hold onto. Something to think about, some sort of moral compass to guide my way. That'll be you, Mom. And Dad, you'll be voice in the back of my mind telling me to stand firm and overcome my fears, just as I'm sure you did in the Great War.

"Well, I better go now. I have an early flight to catch. Not that I suppose they'll leave without me. Still. It's time to go meet destiny."

He stood up and squirmed in discomfort at the wet patch which that soaked through his pants and underwear alike. Before leaving, he reached out with both hands, resting one on each headstone. The polished granite was cold against his skin.

"Goodbye," he whispered. "For now."

* * *

 _This is also totally a cliffhanger._

 _If I was writing this story as a trilogy, this would be the end of book one. And at 350,000 words (give or take a few) it_ _'s been one damn long book. Hope you've enjoyed each and every one of those words! There will now be a short break until the 1 year anniversary of this story (which is September 11th) before chapter 61 is published. Though, I'll post on the 10th, because that's a Sunday, and fits my posting schedule better. So, tune in on 10th September for the start of BOOK TWO! And many thanks to everybody who's been kind enough to drop their thoughts into the review box; your time and input is appreciated.  
_

 _One last thing. I just wanted to respond to a comment made recently in one of the latest chapter reviews. I don_ _'t normally like to get my soapbox out in author notes (the story should do that for me) but if you've read this far, it should be obvious by now that this is not a Fluffy story in which the uglier side of the 1940s is hand-waved away and nobody has to deal with situations which make them uncomfortable. This story reflects REAL LIFE, and not just the real life of the privileged white heteronormative male majority who basically ruled the world at that time (and continue to rule it now). We're all adults here (or mature teens) so I'll toss this author note out there._

 _There are certain subjects_ _—homophobia, racism and sexism amongst them—which are not_ _"today's politics." These are issues which have existed, and will likely continue to exist, for a very long time. It's disgusting and shameful that in the period in which this story is set, thoroughly unpleasant people—men who murdered and stole and beat their wives and/or kids—were treated with more dignity and respect by the establishment than men who were gay, than people of colour or non-Caucasian heritage, and than women. It's even more disgusting and shameful that this still happens today, and that such acts of intolerance and bigotry are perpetrated by allegedly 'educated' and 'civilised' individuals. For people who struggle on a daily basis to have their voices heard and to exercise their rights as individuals because they are not heteronormative CIS-gendered white men, this isn't just "politics", this is life. This is the right to walk down the street with the person you love, to walk down the street and not be unfairly stopped and searched by law enforcement, to walk down the street without feeling objectified by cat-calls and wolf-whistles and inappropriate sexual comments, to walk down the street and not suffer abuse because who you are on the outside does not reflect who you are on the inside._

 _The purpose of this story is not just to tell a tale about soldiers; the purpose is also to shine a light into some dark places. To show the conflicts that are personal, political, and internal, as well as military. To highlight the struggles of women trying to earn the right to be seen as equal to men; of men trying to reconcile who they are with what society says they ought to be; of people who are persecuted by the very lawmakers sworn to protect them because they love the_ _'wrong' person or have the 'wrong' skin colour. If that story isn't for you, there are plenty of stories out there in which nobody questions their sexual identity. In which anti-miscegenation laws don't exist. In which sexism is a thing of the past. In which everybody is Straight And White And Male By Default, even if they aren't. This isn't that story. To make it into that story would be to trivialise the struggles of real heroes, like Alan Turing, who dedicated themselves to freedom and were ultimately and unfairly punished._

 _That said, this story will have a canon ending for anybody who wants it. See you on the 10th._


	61. Second Chances

We Were Soldiers

 _61\. Second Chances_

Steve pushed his way through the teeming, olive drab mass of soldiers, and nobody looked at him twice. He wasn't out in public as Captain America. Today, he was Private Steven Grant Rogers; just another face in the crowd. The Star-Spangled uniform, for which he'd come to establish a special love-hate relationship, was back at the spacious, five-storey hotel which served as the USO's headquarters on Sicily. He hated the attention it drew when he wore it, and the inevitable requests for handshakes, autographs and photo ops which followed. At the same time, he loved it for the anonymity it afforded him. Put it on, and he was a symbol. Take it off, and he was a man. It was a tenuous truce, but it worked.

As he walked, comments about last night's show drifted in to his sensitive ears from men within the crowd around him. None of the voices carried Brooklyn accents. None of the voices were Bucky's voice.

" _Did you see the pins on those dames on the stage?!"_

" _Man, I wish I had a girl like that."_

" _Do you think he gets to share a room with them?"_

" _Man, I wish I could share a room with them."_

" _I heard one of them is Rita Hayworth!"_

Steve groaned inwardly at the last comment. Somebody—he suspected Kevin—had started a rumour that Rita Hayworth was one of Captain America's dancing girls. Steve hadn't thought anybody would be gullible enough to believe the rumour, but Rita had entertained Palermo a couple of weeks ago, and men had come flocking at the rumour she was still in the city. The half-empty arena had filled faster than Coney Island on a hot summer day. He just hoped that rumour wouldn't eventually make it back to the star herself. He doubted Rita would be thrilled about the idea of being one of Captain America's dancers.

The show had been… well, it had been different. The audience here wasn't the same as it was back home. In the U.S., it had been families and kids who filled most of the seats. Here, there were no families. No kids. A few women had been present, but they were locals who hung off the arms of the comparatively wealthy American servicemen, and Steve didn't think they were the type of women who were looking to settle down with families any time soon.

The men in the audience had cheered loudly when the dancers took to the stage. The reception for Captain America himself had been less enthusiastic—at least, until he'd asked for a volunteer. The soldier who came up to the stage was large, almost as big as Steve himself, which made it all the more impressive when Steve lifted the guy clear over his head.

Kevin, again. They hadn't been able to bring the motorbike along on the tour, so Kevin had suggested incorporating an interactive element into the show. Now, instead of lifting a bike, Steve lifted a soldier. He formed the base of a human pyramid for the girls, who were surprisingly good at balancing on his shoulders despite their high heels and short skirts. Steve was very careful to keep his gaze straight ahead, when he was in the pyramid.

He still punched Hitler's lights out, because everybody got a kick out of that. Hitler's actor hadn't come over for the European tour, but Kevin had found a clerk in Palermo's USO office who was the spitting image of the actor who played Hitler back home. The guy's timing wasn't brilliant—it took him a couple of seconds and a hissed prompt from Steve to fall down after the 'punch'—but that was something they could work on.

"How do you feel about juggling knives?" Kevin had asked after the show, while the girls were dancing on stage following calls for an encore.

"You can't be serious?" Steve had asked. But Kevin was very serious.

"We can paint them red, white and blue. It will be very patriotic."

"Absolutely not."

"Bazookas, then? Oh, don't worry, we'd take the missiles out. I wouldn't have you juggling _live_ bazookas, buddy."

"Yeah, because _that_ would be crazy."

As he walked down the streets, he tried not to gawk like some uncultured tourist. His first taste of Italy reminded him in many ways of New York; the crowds of shoppers, the locals hawking their wares at the nearby market, the groups of women carrying baskets on their arms as they weaved their way around the groups of men who watched them with interest… it was a little slice of the familiar amidst the strange.

But the smells here were different. The air was perfumed with the aroma of sweet pastries and exotic fruits. The salty tang of the Med was over-powered on occasion by the less pleasant miasma of backed-up sewers. The sounds, as well, were different. Not just the accents of the locals, which sounded like swift, intricate songs to ears which were more used to hearing a slower Brooklyn drawl, but the other noises, too. There were less motorcars on the roads, and what cars there were spluttered and choked their way over rough, cobbled streets. The gulls, though, cartwheeling in the air above the market as they watched for an easy meal of dropped pastry, cried just the same as in New York. Seeing them brought a smile to his lips.

 _Flash._

Steve closed his eyed against the blinding light as bright flecks danced across his dark lids.

"Darn it, Freddie, can't I even get a bit of sightseeing done without you flashing that thing in my face?" he grumbled, rubbing his eyes to clear his vision.

Freddie Lopresti allowed the sling around his neck to take the weight of the camera as he reached up to throw an arm around Steve's shoulders and offer a gleaming grin.

"You're an artist, Mr. Rogers, so let me paint a picture for you." He gestured with his hand to a family of locals, a man, his wife and their two children, going about their daily business at the market, ignoring the throng of soldiers around them. "The war's over. You're back home with a doll of a wife and a couple of little tykes to bounce on your knee. Little Jimmy or whatever, he asks you, ' _Papa, you got any pictures of yourself in the war?_ ' So you bring out your box of keepsakes and show little Jimmy all the excellent pictures your good pal Freddie took of you during the war. No stars, no stripes, no mask, just plain ol' Private Rogers walking the streets of Palermo surrounded by his fellows-in-arms. How does that sound, Mr. Rogers?"

"It sounds like you think I'm a piece of toast, Freddie." When the young man lifted his eyebrows in question, Steve elaborated. "You're buttering me up."

Freddie chuckled and dropped his arm. Probably couldn't feel the blood flowing to his hand anymore; Freddie was Charlie's age, but he wasn't as tall as Bucky's younger brother. He had quite a reach to get to Steve's shoulders.

"I can't help it, Mr. Rogers. The camera—"

"Loves me. I know," Steve sighed.

"What are you doing all the way out here, anyway?" Freddie looked around at the dusty market and the pot-holed roads. "This isn't exactly the ritzy part of town. I mean, look over there, you can see a bombed out building that they haven't even started to clean up yet."

"I'm looking for souvenirs for some of the folks back home." Not entirely a lie. Just not the whole truth. He was also scanning the faces of every soldier in the crowd. Looking for a pair of blue-grey eyes twinkling with humour. Listening for the familiar sound of a Brooklyn accent.

At that moment, a young woman approached them carrying a tray full of trinkets. They were shells, mostly, on delicate threads, some of them bordered with colourful beads. She babbled something in Italian and began picking out trinkets, pushing them towards Steve's hands.

"Looks like you're in luck," Freddie said. He picked out one of the trinkets and held it up, scrutinising it. It had a cowrie shell at the top, and several strands of small beads and polished shell fragments hanging from it. If Steve squinted _just right_ , it kinda looked like the figure of a person. Some sort of charm, perhaps?

"Do you have any bracelets or necklaces?" he asked. Might as well make good on his half-truth.

The woman continued pushing random trinkets towards him, so Freddie babbled a line of Italian at her, and she began sifting through her wares.

"You speak Italian?" Steve asked.

"You don't?"

"Of course not. I've never been to Italy before."

"Me neither," Freddie grinned.

The woman finally came up with two shell-and-bead bracelets in her hand. Then she said something Steve _did_ understand.

"Five dollars."

Steve reached for his wallet. It seemed a high price for two bracelets which didn't even have a scrap of silver about them, but he could hardly say no now that he'd asked for them. He'd heard that the war had driven up prices in Europe. Freddie, however, reached out to lower the wallet Steve was bringing out from his pocket.

"Mr. Rogers, you can't give her five dollars, it's extortion!"

"But she said—"

"I know what she said." The young man sighed and rolled his eyes. "This isn't America, Mr. Rogers; you don't pay the price on the label. You haggle."

"I don't know how to haggle," he admitted.

"Here, let me show you. How much do you think the bracelets are worth?"

"Jeez, I dunno." He ran a hand through his hair as he studied them. He didn't wanna go to low and insult the woman's work or something. "How much do _you_ think they're worth?"

"No idea. Let's find out."

Freddie picked up one of the bracelets and began gesturing at it as he spoke in Italian. The woman scowled and flapped her hands around as she replied. Freddie shouted a little louder. The woman raised her voice, and her scowl deepened. Steve had no idea what she was saying, but he could imagine it went something like, _'I have four starving children to feed.'_ Maybe he should've just paid the five bucks…

The exchange of shouts drew glances from passing soldiers, but not from the local folks. After another moment of shouting, in which Steve wished he were smaller, or further away from the pair, the woman snatched the bracelets back and started to walk away. Freddie stepped after her and appeared to cajole her back. Finally, he turned to Steve with a smile.

"They're worth three dollars and fifty cents."

"Really?

Freddie shook his head. "No, they're worth less than that, but three-fifty is the least she will take. Apparently, she has an ailing mother to buy medicine for, and father too sick to work, whom she must take care of."

"Oh." Guilt niggled from inside his stomach. "Well, if that's how it is, maybe I should pay the five dollars."

"Mr. Rogers, _everybody_ has circumstances," said Freddie. Right then, he seemed wise beyond his years. "I may not have been to Italy before, but I grew up in _Little_ Italy. Compared to the rat-house tenements of the Lower East Side, Sicily is the Ritz. In fact, my folks didn't even have a house during the first three years of their marriage. They lived in a jalopy, and my oldest brother was born on the back seat. At nights, they'd stick him in the trunk, 'cos they couldn't afford a crib."

"Really?"

"No, of course not really! What kinda nutcase would put their kid in the trunk of a car, even if it was a nice one? My point is, times here are tough, but nobody's starving. And trust me, the locals will be playing the dumb soldiers for all they're worth. There are prostitutes in this city earning more money than _you,_ and by quite a large margin. You gotta take everything people say with a pinch of salt."

"Huh." Steve took out three dollars and fifty cents, and handed it over to the woman. She gave him the bracelets and departed with a "Ciao!", her eyes already scanning the crowd for her next victim.

"You should'a let me get a picture of you standing next to her," Freddie said, patting his camera. "It would'a made a good story for the kids."

"Maybe next time," he snorted. _Kids_. It was a thought he'd never entertained before. Most of the time, he still felt like a kid himself, even though his mom had once told him he'd grown up too fast. That had been just before she'd died.

"So, where to now, Mr. Rogers?"

He checked his watch. Not even midday yet. Plenty of time to get some Bucky-hunting done.

"I dunno. What is there to see around here?"

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Danny woke in a bed. A blanket covered his body, and a pale yellow ceiling greeted his eyes. Noise, musical, drifted into his ears. He turned his head, saw a wind-chime made of shells and hollow wooden tubes suspended in an open window, blowing gently in a breeze which smelt faintly of flowers.

 _I_ _'m dead,_ he thought. _I_ _'m dead and in heaven._

His suspicion was confirmed when a young woman's face appeared above him, dark-haired, dark-eyed, her skin flawless, a warm shade of olive. In her hand was a cool, damp cloth, which she dabbed across his forehead. When she saw his eyes open, she smiled at him, and suddenly everything seemed right with the world.

"Are you an angel?" he asked.

The language she responded in wasn't English, but it was familiar, and her conversation wasn't aimed at Danny, but at somebody on the other side of the room. _Angel language, probably._ Then the face disappeared, replaced by another, fine age-lines beneath the dark eyes and around the mouth, threads of silvery grey winding through the dark hair.

"Are you an older angel?"

"You are safe," the older angel said, her English marked by a strong accent.

"Because I'm in heaven?"

"Because you are in my home."

"Your home in heaven?" he insisted.

"A couple of kilometres outside Castello Lavazzo. I would not call it heaven, but it is pleasant enough."

"I'm still in Italy?"

"Where else would you be?"

He tried to push himself up. "I have to get back to my camp." The searing stab of pain in his shoulder brought a whimper to his lips, and the woman placed her hand on his chest, forcing him back down. She didn't need very much force. His whole body ached, and the bed was very comfortable.

"You are going nowhere. You are very sick, signore. You have been drifting in and out of sleep for days, and your fever has not yet broken."

 _Days?!_ Oh no no, this couldn't be! If he'd been gone for days, everyone would think he was dead. The brass would have written to his parents by now, the quartermaster would have reassigned his stuff, and Barnes would have read his letter. The entire world had changed, because he'd survived death.

"Tonight," the woman continued, "a doctor will come to see you. He will need to take the bullet out of your shoulder. I would like you to drink some water and have some soup, before that. You are weak; you must build up your strength before the doctor comes."

"Or," he said, as visions of huge metal tweezers being jabbed into his shoulder flew by his eyes and made his stomach heave, "we could leave the bullet in and I'll just work around it."

The woman shook her head. "I'm no doctor, but even I know the bullet has to come out. Where it is lodged, it is damaging your muscle, and probably your veins. There is infection in your arm that the doctor cannot treat until the bullet is out."

"Great."

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Sergeant Daniel Wells."

"Where are you from, Signor Wells?"

A thread of paranoia wound its way through his head and left a sharp taste in his mouth. Why did she want to know where he was from? What did it matter? Maybe she was a German spy, or reporting to the Nazis about American troops in the area. He clamped his mouth shut, declining to answer.

"It's okay, we can talk more once the doctor has seen to you. My name is Rosa and this is my daughter, Adalina. She will stay with you whilst I prepare you a bowl of soup, but she does not speak English."

The woman left, replaced by the girl, who resumed cooling his face with the water-dipped cloth. This time, he did not let himself be fooled by her smiles. No German spies would be gettin' anything outta Danny Wells.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

" _Get to the ridge! Hodge, move it, they're right behind us!"_

" _Where's Banks? Has anyone seen Captain Banks?"_

" _Where'd that tank come from? It's firing on the Nazis! Is it ours?"_

"Barnes, wake up."

 _The ground around Bucky exploded. Bodies went flying. He dropped to his knees from the force of the impact and clasped his hand firmly around the stock of his rifle. In the darkness, there was chaos. He didn_ _'t know where Captain Banks was. Didn't know who was in command anymore. All he knew was that the Nazis had been pushing them back, and then a tank had arrived. It was the biggest damn tank he'd ever seen. When it had opened fire on the Nazis, he and the others with him had cheered. When it turned its turret to the men in Banks' taskforce, those cheers had turned to screams._

"Dammit, Barnes, if you die now, I'm gonna whup your ass so hard they'll be hearing it in Berlin."

 _He retreated, and took as many of his men with him as he could gather. They made for a half-crumbled wall, one of the few solid structures left in Azzano. His legs ached. His lungs burned. The air was filled with dust and smoke and the scent of fire and death. A Nazi popped up in front of him, and he shot without aiming, hitting the guy in the stomach. Didn_ _'t occur to him until after the fact that the Nazi had been running blindly from that tank._

 _In the shelter of the crumbling wall, he sank down and tried to draw breath into his lungs. Hands shaking, he reloaded his M1. Almost outta ammo. Looking at the sooty, dirt-stained faces around him, he realised the others were no better off. Gusty had discarded his M1, falling back on his pistol. Biggs had lost his helmet somewhere, and Hodge was limping. A short distance away, a group from the 69th were returning fire, guns aimed at a new group of soldiers, men who wore uniforms he had never seen the like of before._

"C'mon princess, you're heavier than you look, and I'm not gonna carry you much further."

" _Gusty, take Hodge and Biggs and anyone else you can find, and get back to camp," he instructed._

" _Sarge, we can't just leave you—"_

" _Yes, you can, because I'm giving you an order. The brass need to know what happened here. They need to know about the tank, and whoever these new guys are. Wherever it came from, it's no friend of the Nazis or ours. It's intel that's too important to ignore. Now, I'm gonna join up with the 69th, and I'll send anybody else I can to follow you. As soon as we've evacuated as many men as possible, I'll join you back at camp."_

 _Gusty offered a salute. He and Biggs each hooked one of Hodge_ _'s arms around their necks, and Bucky lay suppressing fire as they hurried back towards the forest. When he was sure they were clear, he sank back down behind the wall. The tank was drawing nearer. It didn't go around buildings; it went_ over _them. Something that big_ _… it was unstoppable!_

 _He joined Dugan and a few men from the 69th. Together, they stood their ground. Watched the bodies of enemies fall. Then, the tank turned its turret towards them, and everything went dark._

Bucky opened his eyes and found himself looking at a very familiar moustache.

"Dugan?"

"'Bout damn time, Sleeping Beauty," Dugan said, the worry in his blue eyes belying his mocking tone. "I was beginning to think you'd hit your head harder than I thought."

He sat up, and promptly coughed up a lung. Something—he suspected smoke, or dust—was stuck in his throat, irritating his windpipe, choking him. Dugan handed a canteen over, and Bucky drank deeply, until whatever was choking him was clear. When his coughs stopped and his eyes cleared, he looked around. He was inside some dim interior, and when the interior rocked, he realised it was the back of a wagon. A dozen other men were in there with him; Dugan, and a few of the 370th. Seated on a nearby bench were two guards, faces obscured by goggled helmets, wicked-looking rifles aimed at Bucky and the others.

 _Prisoners._ The thought hit him like a punch to the gut. He let Dugan help him up onto the bench, where he sat back against the side of the rocking vehicle.

"What happened?" he asked.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Standing with you. Firing at a group of soldiers." He nodded his head in the direction of their impassive guards. "Then, the tank aimed at us. How are we not dead?"

Dugan snorted softly. His face was grey with ash, flecked with the blood of friends and foes alike.

"Their aim was off. The blast came close, but it didn't hit us directly. Most of my men were killed. You and I were thrown clear. These sons of bitches came and started picking up survivors. They were gonna shoot you, thought you were too badly injured, but I told 'em I'd carry you—"

"'Preciate it," Bucky said, swallowing the lump in his throat. He'd come _so close_ to death today.

"Anyway, they marched us for a couple of miles, then loaded us all up into this wagon, and others like it."

He glanced again at the guards. It was hard to judge their mindsets when he couldn't see their faces, and he didn't recognise their uniforms. Automatically, his mind groped for advice from Boot Camp. _Intel_. He needed to know where he was. Who his captors were. How many men were with them. How many had gotten away. Then, he could start to formulate a plan.

"What happened to Captain Banks?"

A new voice spoke up. "Dead. I saw him get hit by a Nazi bullet, right before that tank appeared," said dark-skinned Private Jones.

"I don't suppose any of you still have your sidearms?"

Dugan shook his head sadly. "No. They searched us as soon as they got their paws on us"—Bucky's hand leapt to the inner breast pocket of his jacket, and he let out a breath of relief when his fingers felt the edge of the envelope—"and took anything that could be used as a weapon."

"Any idea where they're taking us?"

Again, a head shake. "But I think we're not in Italy anymore. I caught a glimpse of a road sign a couple of miles back, and it sure as hell wasn't in Italian. Switzerland, Austria, Germany… we're in one of those places, I reckon."

They didn't have long to ponder their fates. A few minutes after Bucky woke, the rocking of the vehicle ceased, and the engine cut out. As if sensing this was the opportune moment to escape, the guards stood and gripped their rifles more tightly. Bucky glanced at Dugan, and knew he was thinking the same thing; they wouldn't be quick enough to take the guards, and there was no guarantee the rest of the men would push forward if taken by surprise. They'd have to wait.

More guards arrived. The prisoners were ushered down from the wagon and directed, through the use of rifle-prodding, to the front gates of a towering building, a hellish nightmare of dark stone and uniform rectangular windows too small to fit a body through. Still a little unsteady on his feet, Bucky wobbled until Dugan offered him a broad shoulder to lean on.

 _I feel like Steve,_ he thought, as they stepped through the heavy iron gates. _How many times did I carry him home after he got KO_ _'d in some back alley? I just wish it was home Dugan was taking me to now._

The courtyard was bleak and bare. Nothing grew, and it looked like nothing ever had. Not a single wisp of grass could be seen, not a single tree or bush, not even a weed. It was as if life itself had forsaken this place, and it made Bucky shiver anew. Atop watchtowers stationed around the compound's chain link fence, harsh searchlights roamed, and he closed his eyes as one flashed across his face, blinding him with its brightness.

They were led through the courtyard and into the foyer of the dark building, where Bucky fully expected to be officially processed. But instead of being met by some administrative officer, instead of having their names and serial numbers catalogued, they were separated into smaller groups and frogmarched in different directions. Bucky opened his mouth to object to the men being split up, but Dugan gave him a not-so-gentle nudge in the ribs and shook his head in warning. The two of them, along with Private Jones, were prodded towards a small, dark corridor.

As they walked, he tried to make sense of his surroundings. Tried to take in anything and everything that might help them to escape. The windows were high, barred. Too small for Bucky and his companions to get through, even if they were able to reach them. At the intersection of every corridor, guards were posted. The place was a veritable maze.

When they were finally stopped, they found themselves in a huge room containing barred cells. The cells went on for as far as the eye could see, but not all of them were occupied.

It was to one of the occupied cells that Bucky and his companions were led. Three men were sitting inside the cell, each of them with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and when the door was opened, Bucky and the others were pushed inside. The guards laughed with each other and conversed for a moment in German. One of them went to a wooden crate and brought out a couple of blankets, tossing them through the bars so that they landed at the prisoners' feet. Bucky didn't need to touch one of the blankets to know they were the itchy, woollen type, and they probably smelt as bad as they looked.

Their work done, the guards left. Dugan shoved his hands on his hips and looked at the solid iron bars.

"So. What now?"

The answer came from one of the men on the floor. "Bienvenue à Hell, amis. J'espère que vous ne manquez pas les menthes sur vos oreillers."

Bucky knew just enough French to know he didn't know very much French. After a certain amount of badgering, Wells had taught him a few sentences, but none of those sentences matched what the man on the floor had just said. Dugan seemed less than impressed.

"I don't remember asking for no French dames to share a cell with," the big man scoffed.

The man on the floor was on his feet in a heartbeat, blanket falling from his shoulders as he put up his fists and spewed several sentences of rapid French at Dugan. The guy wasn't very tall, and he had a sort of homeless, unshaven look about him.

"Just what we need," a second man sighed as he pushed himself to his feet. "More Yanks."

The second man was taller even than Bucky and Dugan, and slender despite the thick blanket around his shoulders. Beneath the blanket he wore a khaki-coloured paratrooper's jumpsuit, and a maroon beret was perched atop his head. His soft-spoken voice carried a British accent full to the brim with elocution; it was like hearing Agent Carter in male form.

"What, you got some other Americans hidden around here?" Dugan scoffed.

"He's talking about me, ace," the third man said, as he too pushed himself up from the dusty floor. He was barely taller than the Frenchman, and though the accent was American, the face would've looked more at home on a Jap combatant in the Pacific Theater. "Private Jim Morita, 6th Ranger Battalion," he said, just to put any doubts to rest.

Bucky stepped forward. "You're from the 6th Rangers?"

"Yeah. What's it to you?" Morita asked, eyeing him warily.

"Nothin'. I mean, I met a few of your regiment just a couple of days ago. Captain James, Sergeant Kagawa… a few others with them. And Colonel Taylor."

Morita grimaced. "So, you've had the pleasure of the colonel, huh?"

Bucky very nearly grinned. Taylor hadn't made much of an impression on him. Seeing Phillips get one up on him had been a real pleasure. He offered his hand to the shorter Japanese man.

"Sergeant James Barnes, 107th."

Morita shook his hand, but still seemed wary. His tall companion, however, was much more jovial.

"Major James Montgomery Falsworth, 3rd Parachute Brigade," the British man said, shaking Bucky's hand quite firmly. "And this good man is Jacques Dernier. He understands more English than he speaks."

"Je suis impatient de vous voir pousser des chariots lourds de machinerie nazie autour," said Jacques.

"What'd you say about my mother?" Dugan scowled.

"He said it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Major Falsworth offered.

"That's not actually what he said," Private Jones spoke up.

"You speak French, Jones?" Bucky asked. He hadn't known anyone else in the SSR was fluent.

"Sure do."

"So what'd Frenchie _actually_ say?" Dugan prompted.

Jones' eyes went suddenly shifty. "Uh, he's looking forward to working with us."

"Working?"

"This place is some sort of Nazi forced labour camp," Major Falsworth explained. "They bring us out in shifts to build things. I've no idea what, but it's big, whatever it is. Some of the parts are immense."

"Tanks, maybe?" Dugan offered to Bucky.

"Maybe. Major, when we were brought here, there were other men with us, but they were taken somewhere else."

"Straight to the factory floor, no doubt. They've been undermanned for weeks now. Their commandant—a thoroughly unpleasant chap named Colonel Lohmer—apparently has a daily production quota to satisfy. When he doesn't reach it, he gets nervous. And when Colonel Lohmer is nervous, that's bad for all of us."

"You should all get some rest," said Morita, nodding to the blankets on the floor. "Manual labour is exhausting, and if you collapse before your shift's over, they beat you till you can't even walk and they still expect you to carry out your shift the next day."

Dugan and Jones reached down to pick up a blanket each, then looked at what they held in their hands. Rough-hewn squares of wool, dyed grey and still smelling of the sheep they'd initially come from. The other three prisoners seemed grateful for the warmth they afforded in the cold cell.

"Uh," Jones said, "there's six of us here, but they only gave us five blankets."

Major Falsworth offered a grim smile. "They think it's amusing to provide less than their prisoners need. They want to see us fight over our resources. It not only entertains them, they think it divides us. Prevents us from forming friendships and alliances which might lead to us attempting to overpower the guards and break out."

"Oh, so they just told you all their top secret plans to demoralise us?" asked Dugan. "That was handy."

"Not at all. They were laughing about it amongst themselves, and I just happen to speak German quite fluently, thanks to long summers spent at my Great Uncle Alphard's holiday retreat near Cologne." The major gave Dugan a wistful smile. "I have some very fond memories of travelling around Germany with my cousin Bernhardt."

"Well gee, I hope we didn't accidentally shoot cousin Bernhardt out there."

"Very unlikely, given that he was killed during a failed assassination attempt on Hitler's life very early in the war. Not all Germans are Nazis, you know. I just wish Cousin Bernie had succeeded; you would all be back home right now, and I wouldn't be sitting in a cell with a group of Yanks and a blanket that somehow manages to smell of wet dog."

"You guys take the blankets," Bucky told Jones and Dugan. "I'll stay awake."

Dugan scoffed loudly. "What, you think just because you were unconscious for a few hours, you've already slept? Hate to burst your bubble, Sleeping Beauty, but those two things aren't the same."

"He's right," said Major Falsworth. "If you were injured earlier, you should sleep now. You can't afford to get sick in this place."

He could see Dugan wasn't going to take no for an answer, so he accepted one of the blankets and huddled down on the floor beside the other three. None of them had any coins, so Dugan and Jones played rock-paper-scissors for right to the last blanket, and planned to switch after a couple of hours. Jones won, so he joined Bucky and the others on the ground.

Despite Falsworth's advice, it wasn't easy to find sleep. The ground was hard, the air was cold, and the iron bars of the cell pushed against the muscles of his back. When sleep eventually began to claim his mind, another thought occurred to him.

"Has anybody ever tried to escape?" he mumbled.

"One, but it was before my time," said Falsworth. "I've only heard about it through rumour."

"Did he manage to get out?"

The answer came from Jacques Dernier, a long stream of French translated by Jones.

"Jacques says he knew the guy. A member of some U.S. cavalry division captured in Africa. The guy jumped his guards and managed to grab one of their guns, which he shot them with. He himself was shot in the leg by Colonel Lohmer as he ran towards the front gates. Colonel Lohmer threw him back in his cell with his wound untreated. A few hours later, the guy used the edge of his dog tags to slice open his own wrists."

The tags against Bucky's chest suddenly felt cold as ice.

"Why don't they take our tags from us?"

"Because they simply don't care if we hurt ourselves or each other," said Falsworth. "They can always find new workers."

And with that cheery piece of information rolling around in his head, Bucky closed his eyes and sought the comfort of sleep.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: Welcome back to part two of the story! Questions, comments, criticisms; stick 'em in the box!_


	62. Fever

We Were Soldiers

 _62\. Fever_

"How'd you all get captured?" Bucky asked.

Sunlight streamed through the barred glass windows, illuminating the factory floor on which Bucky and his cellmates laboured. Under armed guard, they carried heavy parts from crates to assembly lines, and slotted them into place within larger components. The guards seemed not to care if their prisoners talked while they worked, but if their pace slowed for even a moment, they were there with their guns, jabbing the stocks into backs or thwacking them against thighs or shoulders. Growled curses of _"Schneller!"_ always accompanied the strikes. It was one hell of a way to learn German.

"A group from my battalion were captured during a fight not far from Milan," said Morita. "Taylor took us too close to the city, and the Nazis got the drop on us." He spat and glared at the guards. "Most of my group are in different cells, but they took a couple of guys away and I never saw them again."

"Rumour has it there's a medical facility at the back of the compound, where they experiment with chemical and biological agents," said Falsworth. "Nobody who's taken to the back room ever comes back from it."

"How'd you get captured, Major?" Bucky prompted.

"Oh. That. Yes. I was shot out of the sky. My parachute took flak."

"I'm surprised you didn't break every bone in your body," said Dugan. He gave a loud grunt as he heaved a particularly heavy part into place on the assembly line. It had taken Bucky and Dernier together to shift one of those parts.

"I landed in a lake," said Falsworth. "Managed to cut my chute off me before it dragged me down. When I got to the shore, I found these fellows waiting for me."

"What about you, Dernier?"

"He's been here for almost a year," Jones translated. "He's a member of the French Resistance in Marseilles—or he was, before he got captured."

"What'd he do for the Resistance? Polish their boots?" asked Dugan.

Dernier gabbled a quick stream of French. Jones shot a glance at the guards, only translating quietly when he was sure their focus was on another group of workers.

"He ran a network of informants and was responsible for feeding intelligence back to British operatives, as well as providing misinformation to Nazi forces occupying France."

"And they just stuck him in a labour camp?" Dugan asked, incredulous.

"He says he has a very trusting face. He told the man who captured him he was a simple courier, that he merely carried messages for men far smarter than he." Jacques gave them a cheesy grin. "He also claimed to spend his time cooking for the Resistance. Apparently he makes crêpes Suzette that are to die for."

"How 'bout you guys?" asked Morita, as he hauled a small crate of parts to the assembly line. "They catch you digging the latrine pit or something?"

"We were battling Nazi forces in Azzano," Bucky explained. "Out of nowhere, this massive tank showed up and starting firing on us—and the Nazis."

"Bullshit."

"It's true as my eyes are blue," Dugan said. "While Snow White here was catching her beauty sleep, I saw that tank decimate the Nazis we'd been fighting. And these guys, for whatever reason, they don't take Nazi prisoners. They rounded us up like cattle, but the Nazis… they executed them. Didn't even stick 'em in a mass grave. Just left 'em lying where they'd fallen."

Falsworth's dark brows lowered into a frown. "But then, if these aren't the _Wehrmacht_ or the _SS_ , who are they?"

Bucky gestured his cellmates in closer, and they stepped around one of the parts he was assembling. "I think they're HYDRA," he said. It was the only reason he could think of for their captors shootin' other Germans.

"What, the sea monster?"

"HYDRA!" Dugan let out a low whistle. "You mean, those guys who ran all those bunkers you and Cinderella captured back in France?"

"Uh, 'scuse me, how 'bout cluing the rest of us in to this little powwow?" said Morita.

So as they worked, Bucky quietly explained how back in France, he and Wells had taken on HYDRA and captured several of their facilities under Phillips' command. Told the rest of them the sorts of things HYDRA got up to, and how they'd splintered away from the rest of Hitler's Nazis.

"I suppose," Falsworth mused, his grey eyes full of thoughtful introspection, "it makes sense that they don't take any German prisoners. After all, if large numbers of Germans went missing, and they weren't accounted for as POWs, the Nazis would get suspicious." The others stared at him, and he willingly elaborated. "The Geneva Convention explicitly states that individuals taken as prisoners of war must be allowed to communicate their capture to others, and that their commanding officer should be informed. Nazi POWs taken by England, or America, would be given that right. When no word of their missing men was forthcoming, the Nazis would become suspicious. And this 'HYDRA' obviously couldn't allow any captured German prisoners to communicate with the outside world, because that would reveal their intentions to separate from Hitler and pursue their own goals. Far easier to just murder them and make it look like they were killed fighting our chaps."

"Huh," said Morita. "When you put it like that, I guess it _does_ make sense. In a really twisted way, of course."

"Hey, wieder an die arbeit!" one of the guards shouted at their group, and they scrambled for the next batch of parts.

As he worked, Bucky tried not to dwell on how tired he was, and how much his muscles ached. He'd gotten only a couple of hours' sleep before their shift, and the floor of the cell had been cold and uncomfortable even with the blanket. His neck had a crick in it, his shoulders burned from hauling crates, and his empty stomach growled so loudly that he could hear its complaints over the noise of the factory machines. He had no idea when they'd be fed, and he doubted the quality of the meals would be any better than shit-on-a-shingle. In fact, it probably wouldn't even be that good. But if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that this HYDRA _stalag_ was not gonna be the end of him. There had to be a way out. Nowhere was impregnable.

"Jacques," he said quietly, when chance took him close to the Frenchman, "how'd you manage to survive so long in this place?"

"Very good luck," he laughed, the first English words Bucky had heard him say. Falsworth, who was working nearby, elaborated for him

"Mr. Dernier has a very specific skill set."

The Frenchman mimed an action, holding something small between his finger and thumb, and turning it from side to side.

"What, you picked flowers?" Dugan guessed. "Ugh, I hate charades."

Falsworth rolled his eyes. "He's picking a lock. He was—and still is—a thief. A very resourceful one; he's been able to procure us small items from time to time, as well as additional food."

Dernier slapped his chest and grinned with pride. "Très bon thief."

Bucky could hardly believe his luck. A guy who was used to breaking into places was exactly the sort of person they needed to help them break out of the work camp. Later, back in the cell, perhaps after they had been fed, he would talk to the others about the possibility of escape. If the HYDRA personnel were complacent enough to leave their prisoners with their tags, who knew what else they might have let slip?

He burst into a fit of coughs, and Dugan, who was hauling crates behind him, shot him a look of unfeigned concern. "You okay, princess?"

Bucky flipped Dugan the two-fingered salute, only answering when his coughing fit had passed. "I'm fine. Think I got a lungful of ash in Azzano. I just need a drink of water or something to clear my throat."

"I wouldn't get your hopes up about that," said Dugan, glancing at their guards. "These guys don't seem the accommodating type."

"Guess I'll wait till dinner time, then." He turned back to his work and Dugan resumed hauling crates. Until he could come up with a plan to get himself and everybody else out of the _stalag_ , he'd have to be the model prisoner. Give the guards no reason to single him out. He just hoped that Gusty and the others had made it back to camp. That Colonel Phillips was plotting a rescue, just in case it really _was_ impossible to escape from this place.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Danny had sipped the water offered to him by his heavenly hosts, but the smell of the soup made him feel sick. He dry-retched after the first mouthful and declined to try any more. After that, things had gone downhill. The fever hit back with a vengeance. By evening, he was drifting in and out of consciousness, plagued by hallucinations which haunted his waking moments.

His father visited again, to add further scorn and derision, whilst his mother watched on silently in the background.

"It would be better for all of us if you died in Europe," his father said. "Think of how proudly we can tell others of your sacrifice. Our son, nobly giving his life in the name of freedom. But if you come back… what then? The son who wasn't good enough to die for his country. Your brothers would have died for their country, but that sort of heroism was never for you, was it?"

"I hate you," he told the man who'd been more tormentor than father. "You never wanted me, neither of you. Tim got everything, he was always your favourite, even after he brought two bastards into the world. I'm not gonna die out here. I'm gonna live, I'm gonna come back and I'm gonna make sure everyone knows what a horrible father you are. What a small, weak, pitiful man who had to lock his own sons away just to try and make them behave."

"It wasn't to make you behave. It was so I didn't have to look at you. To see you, and live with the disappointment you brought to your mother and I every single day of our lives. And look at you now! Most men at your age are settling down, starting families. You're still so afraid of commitment and responsibility that you've even convinced yourself you're in love with your friend."

"That's not true! I do love Barnes. I think."

"Love?" his father snorted. "You're too selfish for love. You're not capable of anything so deep and selfless as that."

Carrot came next, his blue eyes accusing.

"I was in love, you know. Samantha. And now she's gonna live the rest of her life alone, because you killed me. If you hadn't been goofing around juggling knives right before that mission, I would never have gone on it. I'd be alive, and Samantha wouldn't have to spend the rest of her life heartbroken."

"I know. I'm sorry, Carrot, it's my fault. I wish I could go back. I wish I could change things."

Hawkins, Jones and Martland followed Carrot; they watched him in silence, their faces blood-stained, eyes cold like dead fish. And that was when it hit him; Hawkins was dead. Hawkins, who'd been a friend, a vulnerable kid who'd lost his older brother. Hawkins, who was a son and an uncle and now was nothing but a memory to the people he'd left back home. Jones was dead. Jones, who had a first name, but Danny didn't know what it was. Martland, whom he'd only ever spoken a half-dozen words to, was gone. And who knew how many people Martland had left behind back home?

The tears denied to him during his flight from the scene of battle finally flowed freely, tears for his friends, himself, the whole damn broken world, until it felt like he was merely crying simply because he could, because now he was shot, in pain, courting death, and he was allowed to cry.

A few times he opened his eyes into a hazy dream of a yellow ceiling and a man who loomed over him with a bottle of something that burned, a pair of medical tweezers, a wad of gauze and bandaging, a needle and thread, a sharp syringe, and each time the man loomed closer, there was pain, agonising pain. He tried to avoid the dream, to sink back to the place where he was taunted by the people he'd left behind, to escape the man and the punishment he inflicted.

Everything began to darken around the edges, like he was falling backwards into a hole, falling down, down, into the unknown centre of the earth, as Alice had fallen down the rabbit hole. Faces floated past him, voices calling out, scenes from Last Stop and France and home. When he finally stopped falling, he was in a tiny, cramped, dark space into which no light could filter; the bolted door saw to that.

"Let me out," he whispered into the darkness, because shouting it would have meant extra punishment. "Let me out." He felt tears roll down his cheeks, but didn't try to wipe them away. The tears were the only defiance he had. They could put him in here to take away the light and silence his voice, but they couldn't take his tears.

His head jerked up at the sound of the bolt sliding back. He narrowed his eyes in preparation for the blinding light, and saw the dark outline of a head blocking out the daylight. That outline made his body pull back, away from the man who'd banished him here. If he'd had room, he would have crawled even further into the cupboard, further into the rabbit hole, but there was nowhere left to retreat to. As much as he wanted to escape the darkness, he didn't want to have to face his father.

"Wells?"

Danny's spirits soared. The voice wasn't his father's voice. It was the voice of a man who had been conspicuously absent since he'd gotten shot, a voice Danny had ached to hear because he knew that just hearin' it would make everything a little more right.

"Barnes?"

"Who else would it be, dummy? What're you doing in there?"

"I…" He hesitated. How could he tell his friend that his dad had locked him in here? That what he was doing, was crying like a little kid. "I'm just looking for… my book. I lost my book."

"Well, you can worry about that later. Get your ass out here; we're gonna be late for the mission."

Barnes reached out a hand and Danny took it, letting himself be pulled out of the darkness. The world seemed to slide around him and he found himself in a forest, dressed in his olive drab uniform, kitted out for a mission. In front of him, Barnes was loading his rifle, and when he looked back he found not a cupboard, but a foxhole he'd dug the night before.

"I thought I was dead," he said.

"Me too," said Barnes, the words mumbled around a cigarette poking out from the corner of his mouth. Weird; Barnes didn't normally smoke. "But you came back, and just in time for this mission."

"What's the mission?"

Barnes shrugged, took a drag on the smoke. "Dunno. Find out when we get there, I guess."

Huh? That wasn't how missions went. You needed to know what the mission was _before_ you carried it out. Otherwise, how could you plan for it? And how had Danny gotten back? He remembered waking up, seeing Hawkins and the others, then there had been something about Rita Hayworth's bed, followed by two angels and lots of strangeness… but the journey back to camp was blank.

 _The letter!_ What had happened to his letter? Had Barnes found it? Read it? Burned it? Or had it gotten lost, or, or… Surely if Barnes had read the letter, the first words outta his mouth wouldn't have been about the mission, would they?

Danny steeled himself. He had to ask. He had to know.

"I… um… I left you a letter," he offered lamely.

"Yeah, I got it." Barnes grinned at him. "You almost had me going there, for a minute."

Danny felt those soaring spirits plummet from the sky like lead weights. "You… thought it was a wind-up?"

"Of course it was a wind-up." Barnes finished loading his gun and slung it across his shoulder. Then he took the dog-end out of his mouth and dropped it onto the ground, stamping it out with his heel. "See, I can't be friends with a guy who's like _that._ So either it was a wind-up, or we're not friends. Which is it?"

His mind screamed the answer at him. _Wind up. Wind up._

He opened his mouth. Hesitated. All his life he'd been alone, even when he'd been surrounded by friends, even when he'd been out having a good time with pretty dames, and it wasn't until he'd arrived at Camp Shanks that he'd realised just how alone he'd always been. Sure, he could lie. But if he lied, he'd be betraying his own feelings. For the first time in forever, he didn't want to tell tall tales, to embellish or diminish this thing to make himself feel better about it. For better or worse, he loved his friend. Love like this did not deserve to be hidden or lied about.

"For the first time in my life, I told the plain, honest truth about something that matters to me. It frightens me, but I can't change how I feel about you. And I'm not sure I want to."

Barnes looked at him for a moment, then gave a sad shake of his head. "I'm sorry you feel that way. Why couldn't you just have lied? We could'a been friends."

"We still can!" Danny said, desperately clinging on as the ship went down. "Nothing has to change. I can care about you, and we can still be friends."

"C'mon, you know it doesn't work like that. Now, I gotta go on this mission. I think it would be best if you stayed behind."

"No." His voice cracked. He tried again, more firmly, denying the feeling of his heart slowly shrivelling inside his chest, withdrawing from the pain of the world around it. "Please don't leave me behind."

"Sorry, Wells. That's what you get for tellin' the truth."

Barnes reached out to give him a shove on his shoulder, and Danny fell back. He didn't hit the ground, but kept falling, into the foxhole, through the Earth and into the darkness of the cupboard. And after a lifetime of falling, he slammed into something hard, and the blackness swallowed him.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Colonel Lohmer was a cruel, pinch-faced, arrogant man, and Bucky hated him the moment he laid eyes on him. He could tell right away that the man was a bully; he carried that same smug, superior air as the guys Bucky had spent his young life pulling off Steve. Only, in Lohmer, those traits were worse, because he had an army of fanatics to do his bidding, and those fanatics were heavily armed.

Lohmer himself carried no weapon when he performed the his daily rounds of the cells, not even a service pistol. The two faceless, masked guards trotting after him like well-trained Rottweilers were the only weapons he needed. The condescending sneer on his face lorded that fact over the prisoners, too. Here he was, unarmed, and the men in the cells were still powerless against him.

"I'm starting to get fed up of you hogging that blanket, _Monty_ ," said Dugan to Falsworth. He made a grab for the blanket around the major's shoulders, but Falsworth stepped nimbly back.

"Then maybe you Yanks should share what's left. And don't call me 'Monty'; it's 'Major' or 'Sir' to _you_."

"Oh-ho, so it's gonna be like that, is it, Limey?"

"That's right, _Sergeant_. And if you're looking for a ridiculous name, perhaps you should start with your own." Falsworth gave a scornful snort. "What kind of a name is 'Dum Dum' anyway. That's almost as daft as Barnes asking us to call him 'Bucky.'"

Bucky was barely paying attention to the argument in the cell behind. Sitting cross-legged at the front of the bars, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he kept his head down and pretended to be afraid of being drawn in to the confrontation. Surreptitiously, through his dark lashes, he watched Colonel Lohmer perform his rounds. The _stalag_ _'s_ commandant ambled through the room, pale eyes taking in the dirty faces of the prisoners, a small, amused smile on his lips. That smile widened when he heard the commotion in Bucky's cell.

"Actually," said Gabe Jones, oblivious to Lohmer's approach, "Dum Dum's real name is 'Timothy.' I saw it on his tags."

"Well well," Falsworth grinned, "Timmy it is, then!"

Dernier said something in French, and he and Jones burst out in belly-aching laughter.

"Shut it, Frenchie," Dugan scowled. He punched one of the iron bars with his fist, and Bucky winced in sympathy for the guy's knuckles. "Y'know, I'm getting damn fed up of being stuck in a cell with cowards and blacks and Nips. And the Limey's worst of all! Who've I gotta talk to around here to get moved to a better cell?"

"Is there a problem here?" Colonel Lohmer asked in strongly accented English, as he and his guards stopped in front of the cell. The gloating look on his face said that even if there was a problem, he wasn't gonna do anything about it. In fact, a problem would've made his day.

"Yeah," said Dugan, pushing his way forward, damn near trampling Bucky in the process. "I gotta problem with this Limey son of a bitch thinking he's so goddamn superior because he got a stick shoved up his ass in officer training school. Whaddya say to moving me somewhere a bit nicer? Somewhere without any Brits. Preferably somewhere without any blacks, too. If this were a _proper_ Nazi camp, you'd make the Negroes use separate facilities."

"Yeah," Jones agreed. "It's not fair making good, honest folks like me use the same facilities as jerks like Dugan. I'm pretty sure he's infested our blankets with fleas."

Lohmer chuckled, and Bucky's hands clenched beneath his blanket. _Patience_ , he told himself. There would be time to deal with Lohmer later. For now, he was starting to form a plan of escape, one so convoluted and crazy that even Wells would've been proud of it. For now, it was enough to sow the seeds. To show Lohmer and his goons what they wanted to see.

"Perhaps, if you work hard, I will think about moving some of you to other cells." The colonel gave them a false, indulgent smile, then moved on to inspect the next cell. The men behind Bucky started arguing again, and Bucky continued to watch until Lohmer and his guards left the room. When he was sure they weren't coming back, he stood and turned to face the others.

"Okay, he's gone."

Sighs of relief were heaved all around. Dugan offered conciliatory glances for the others.

"Sorry if I ruffled your feathers, boys. Gabe, you know I didn't mean those things I said, right? And Monty, I have nothing but respect for you tea-drinking Limeys."

"Of course," Falsworth assured him with a smile. "Although I really would appreciate it if you stopped calling me 'Monty.'"

"Right. Got it." Dugan turned to Bucky. "So, Sleeping Beauty, why'd you ask us to argue like that?"

"First, how come everyone else gets an apology for you calling them offensive nicknames, but I still get called after fairytale princesses?" Bucky asked.

"Because I haven't had to put up with three months of their hat-stealing, prank-playing bullshit. That's why."

Oh. Right. That. Bucky cleared his throat. "I was thinking about what Mont—sorry, Falsworth, told us the day we arrived. You know, how it amuses the Germans to see us fighting amongst ourselves. I thought it might be a good idea to play up to that. Make them think we really can't stand each other."

A puzzled expression danced across Dernier's face. "Pourquoi?"

 _God help me, Wells,_ Bucky thought, _I_ _'m actually learning French._

"Because if they think we're fighting all the time, they'll be less inclined to watch us like hawks." He let a sliver of an excited smile tug at his lips. "And that will make it easier for us when we attempt our escape."

"Échapper? C'est impossible. La démence! Vous êtes fou, je vous le dis!"

"Gabe? That didn't sound like the vote of confidence I was hoping for."

"Yeah, he said you're crazy."

"See?" Dugan gloated. "Frenchie's only known you for a couple of days, Barnes, and he already knows you're crazy."

Bucky was too busy coughing up a lung to reply, and it took several minutes for the coughing to subside. When he looked up, he found Dugan wasn't the only one favouring him with a worried glance.

"Look," he said, to detract away from the inevitable deluge of _'are you alright?'_ Of course he wasn't alright; he was in a HYDRA work-camp, his lungs felt like they were on fire, and he was no longer in the same country as the rest of the SSR. On top of that, he was stuck in an iron cell with men who seemed to have given up even before they'd tried. "I'm not crazy. But we can't just sit here until they work us to death. We _have_ to escape."

"Il n'y a pas d'espoir d'échapper."

"There's no hope of escape," Jones translated.

"For as long as we draw breath, there's hope," Bucky told them. All his life, he'd watched his best friend get knocked down by bullies time and time again, and each time, Steve had gotten back on his feet and refused to let them keep him down. How could Bucky do any less? "I don't know about you guys, but I'm not holding out for a rescue any time soon. Our people probably don't even know where we've been taken. I'm gonna make a plan. And when the time's right, I'm gonna escape. If the rest of you want to stay, then that's fine, but I'll take with me anybody who's still willing to fight." He turned his gaze to Dernier. "Jacques. When the Nazis occupied your country, did you just give up and say it was hopeless? Falsworth, when Britain was alone, with no allies left in Europe, did you and your government roll over and surrender? Dugan, Jones—remember Como? How we fought so hard to keep that city after the bombing campaign? It would've been easier to let the Germans take it, but _easy_ isn't always _right_. And if they really _do_ have us making more of those tanks, then I'd rather go out fighting than contribute to their army."

"You 'ave spirit of French Resistance fighter!" Dernier grinned. "I 'elp plan escape. On va montrer à ces salauds pourquoi ils vont perdre la guerre."

Dugan slapped Bucky hard on the back, nearly sending him sprawling. "Hell, if I'd known the best way to stop you moping around camp was to get captured by the enemy, I would've marched you across the German line days ago! Count me in; I'd rather fight than capitulate."

"I suppose an escape attempt is the least we can do to resist our captors," Falsworth agreed. "Cousin Bernie would approve."

"If Dugan's going, I'm going," said Jones. "He still owes me ten bucks from our last poker game."

"I'd hate to miss the party, but I feel left out of the personal appeals," Morita added.

"Hey, Morita," Bucky said, "remember that time you helped us escape from a HYDRA work-camp?"

"Hmm, yeah, now that you mention it, I _do_ recall something like that," he chuckled.

Bucky nodded. This was more like it. For the past three months he'd felt like a leaf fallen into a river, tossed this way and that, at the mercy of the eddies and the current, given no control over his direction, no say in where or when or why. He'd lived without knowing what tomorrow would bring, but now, he was a leaf no longer. Finally, he had a purpose, and he knew what tomorrow would bring; escape. It would take longer than a day, of course, but it was a direction, and he'd chosen it himself. For the first time since arriving at Last Stop, USA, he was in control.

"Alright," he smiled, as the men in his cell clustered closer together. "Let's get started."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Voices whispered on the edge of Bucky's hearing, voices which spoke in a conspiratorial hush. Beneath his blanket, he shivered, and remembered the last time he'd heard voices whispering from the shadows. If it hadn't been for Wells, and Carter, and Stark, those whispers would've been the death of him. Now, he felt like they were coming close again.

He forced his heavy eyelids open and squinted at the figures clustered in a huddle nearby. He couldn't make out their words, but he knew that if they were talking so quietly, they had to be discussing the escape plan. He pushed the blanket off his shoulders— _two blankets!_ —and sat up. Immediately, he started coughing as the small act of moving irritated his lungs. The group of men looked over at him, guilt etched all over their faces.

"What… time is it?" he asked, once the dry hacking subsided enough to allow words to come out instead.

"Early," said Dugan. "Go back to sleep, you look like hell."

Bucky had to admit, he wasn't doin' too good. Over the past week, his cough had gotten worse. His aches and pains might have hurt him more, if it wasn't for his feverish state of mind. He was burning up so bad that the cold floor was a welcome comfort, but nobody else seemed to think it was a good idea for him to be sleeping on it. They buried him with extra blankets whenever he closed his eyes for more than a minute, sacrificing their own comfort for warmth that Bucky didn't even need. When he objected, they ganged up on him in a way that was _really_ unfair.

To make matters worse, his heart ached. Not metaphorically, or figuratively, but _literally_. Each cough made his lungs and ribs constrict, squeezing his chest and back muscles, putting pressure on his heart, so that even the simple act of breathing became painful. Guilt added its own weight to his pain. His coughs kept everyone else awake, too. Not just the men in his cell, but the men in _all_ the cells. One of the Americans a few cells away had finally snapped at Bucky to shut up. Later, when they'd been released for work, Dugan broke the guy's nose. Nobody else had said anything since then.

"I'm fine," he rasped, though his throat felt like he'd spend an entire day swallowing broken glass. "Tell me what's happening."

Reluctantly, Falsworth said, "Captain Sawyer got a message to us, on his way back to his cell. He says he overheard a couple of the guards complaining that the waste extraction network had backed up again, and they had to go down there after their shift ended to unblock it."

"You mean, sewers?"

Falsworth nodded, wrinkling his nose. "I know it's probably not what you had in mind, but if the guards are able to get down there, then they're large enough for men to escape through. And it's possible the sewers go under the security fence and come out some considerable distance away."

Bucky sighed, which quickly turned into another cough. Morita had introduced them to his unit's Captain, Sam Sawyer, who'd been captured near Milan along with a large chunk of the Ranger regiment. Sawyer was one of the men who worked as a loader, hoisting the parts Bucky and co. finished assembling into large HYDRA wagons in the facility's outdoor compound, and as such he was uniquely placed to gauge the level of external security the Germans had in place. So far, he gauged it _high_. Even if the men attempting to escape managed to overpower their guards, and take their weapons, and get to the compound, the chances were they would be shot down by the guards up in the watch towers before they could make it over the fence.

The way Bucky saw it, in order for an escape attempt to be successful, the guards outside would have to be dealt with at the same time as the guards _inside_. The main problem with that was that they never knew exactly when more wagons would be along to collect parts, so even if Bucky and his cellmates were on the factory floor when it happened, they'd have no way to co-ordinate the attempt with Sawyer and the rest of the loaders.

When his coughing fit didn't subside as fast as the last time, Gabe and Falsworth made their way over and crouched down beside him. They took it in turns to press the backs of their hands against his forehead, whilst Bucky swatted feebly at them and had a déjà vu of being back in the SSR's camp with Gusty and Wells doing the same thing.

"What do you think?" Falsworth asked Jones, talking over Bucky with the worst bedside manner he'd ever seen.

"I think pneumonia," said Jones.

"I have to agree."

"Thank you, Doctor Jones and Nurse Falsworth," Bucky glowered. "But I don't have pneumonia." He held back a cough just to prove it. "Just a bit of a cold. A seasonal thing. Now leave me alone, I gotta think about the sewer situation."

They reluctantly backed away, and Bucky dragged one of the blankets around his shoulders and leant back against the bars of the cell. The rest of the group began talking quietly amongst themselves, nonsense talk about the first thing they were gonna do after escaping. Bucky reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the letter that was starting to get badly worn down its folded edges. He read it again, top to bottom, front and back, looking for something, _anything,_ that might help him find a way out of this mess.

He knew it was stupid, looking for answers in a dead man's confessions, but he couldn't help it. Wells had always been good at coming up with solutions when things went sideways, and right now, things weren't just sideways; they were upside down.

 _C_ _'mon, pal,_ he thought to his absent friend. _You_ _'ve found your way out of some pretty dark places. Help me find a way out of this one. I don't wanna spend the rest my life in here. There's still a war to be won._

If the spirit of Wells was listening, he certainly wasn't answering. No divine inspiration was forthcoming. He didn't get any flashes of insight, and no whisper of how he could use something in this place his advantage. When he tried to imagine what his friend might say if he were here, all he could see was Wells naggin' at him to get some rest and making some smart-assed crack about huddling together for warmth.

When a pair of HYDRA guards appeared with a large metal container, Bucky put the letter away. The guards tossed a handful of stale, crusty bread rolls onto the floor, and the men scrambled to pick them up before they could get too dirty. Dernier tossed one to Bucky, whilst Dugan ambled over to the front of the bars to address the Germans.

"Say, I don't suppose there's any chance of a little peanut butter and jelly to go with this, is there?"

The guards stared at him in silence for a moment, then moved on to the next cell. Bucky hated the guards almost as much as he hated Lohmer. At least he knew Lohmer had a face. The masks the guards wore hid their identities completely.

"I can't imagine that tasting very pleasant," said Falsworth as he tore into his roll, an expression of disgust painting its way across his face.

"What, PB&J?" Dugan replied. "You haven't lived until you've tried PB&J. It's heaven. When we get outta here and find the nearest Allied camp, the first thing I'm gonna do is make you a PB&J sandwich."

"I can hardly wait."

"Eat up, Barnes," said Morita, when Bucky sat picking at his roll. "If it's too tough for you to chew, we can get Dernier to pre-chew it for you."

Dernier said something that did not sound particularly flattering even to Bucky's Anglophone ears.

He managed to get the stale bread down his throat, though he wished like hell he had a glass of water to make swallowing it a little easier. The stuff was almost as hard to chew as the biscuits used in shit-on-a-shingle, and just as tasteless. A few days ago, Morita had gotten something crunchy in his breakfast bread roll. When he spat out the shiny black shell of some beetle, he vomited up everything he'd swallowed, and nobody else had been able to stomach breakfast that morning.

Colonel Lohmer appeared, once breakfast was done. Flanked by his goons, he made his usual morning round of the cells, smiling to himself as he watched his prisoners suffer. Bucky couldn't figure out why he liked watching the men suffer so much, and he hoped he never _would_ understand. All he knew was that this went beyond the usual Nazi sentiment of genetic supremacy. The Nazis might hate Jews, and consider Russians sub-human, but Colonel Lohmer seemed to enjoy inflicting misery on _everybody_.

"Open this one," Lohmer instructed, stopping in front of Bucky's cell.

One of the guards moved to open it, and Dugan and Dernier took steps back. The metal door clanged open, and the commandant sneered down his nose at the men on the floor. Bucky didn't need to be a mind reader to know what the guy was thinking. All of the prisoners were dirty, their hair lank, their faces pale. They all stank of sweat because there were no bathing facilities available, and their shoes reeked of urine thanks to the constantly overflowing toilets. It was as if Lohmer wasn't content to merely _work_ the prisoners; he wanted to humiliate them, as well.

"On your feet," the man barked.

Falsworth, Morita and Jones stood right away, but Bucky had to take a moment to prepare himself. He last coughing fit had brought black flecks swarming in front of his eyes, and his limbs felt so weak it was a wonder they were still attached to his body.

"Pitiful," Lohmer gloated. "How weak and slow you are. Your American ancestors were on to a good idea, enslaving the blacks. We have found blacks to be much better menial labourers; stronger, faster. It was foolish of you to grant them their freedom. When we reach America, we will take your rich lands for ourselves and correct this terrible travesty. The black slaves will be put back in their place, and they will toil for the glory of a superior race."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Bucky grumbled wheezily.

"I said 'on your feet,' filth!"

A swift blur of motion ended with a blossoming of pain across one side of his ribs; Lohmer's booted foot connecting sharply with his chest. Bucky couldn't help the pained cry that escaped his lips as he went toppling back against the bars. His shoulder was wrenched in the process, and the back of his head hit the iron bars so hard that, for a moment, he saw stars.

The next thing he knew, Dugan was rushing forward with his fist raised, ready to throw a punch right at Lohmer's face. The guards were swifter. One of them drew a baton and effortlessly back-handed it across Dugan's midriff, striking his solar plexus and knocking the wind right out of him with a gasp of "Oof!" But even without any air in his lungs, he wasn't going down. He took another step forward, this time raising his other hand.

 _Dugan, you stupid ass!_ Bucky mentally hissed at him. Gritting his teeth against the aches and pains of his body, he reached out for the nearest bar and used it to haul himself to his feet before Dugan could nobly get himself killed.

"See?" Lohmer said to the other guard, with a gesture for Bucky. "I told you he was not too sick to work." He gave a curt nod, and the first guard brought his baton around and struck Dugan across the back, sending the big man flying into the bars. Bucky's fingernails dug into his palms, hands trembling as he tried to hold back his fury. Dugan didn't deserve to be punished for trying to help him. It wasn't fair—and Lohmer knew it. As much as Bucky hated doing nothing, nothing was currently the best thing to do. Better that Lohmer believe them cowed into submission. Better he not see too many acts of defiance.

"Take these men to the factory," Lohmer instructed the guards. He pointed at Bucky and Dugan. "Tonight, these two get no food. If the others try to share their food, beat them all."

Bucky wobbled woozily as Lohmer left, and Falsworth rushed forward to grab his arm and hook it around his narrow shoulders. "Sorry, Dugan," Bucky said, as Dum Dum took several deep huffs to get his diaphragm working again.

"Yeah, me too. I didn't mean to get your rations cut by these pea-brained, sour-breathed goat-fu—"

Dugan had the butt of a rifle jabbed into his ribs, for that one. Both guards looked like they were prepared to start open firing then and there, so the group stepped quickly out of their cell and let themselves be herded down to the factory floor where another gruelling ten hours of manual labour waited them. Bucky, still half-carried by Falsworth, suspected he wouldn't last _one_ hour hauling parts around, much less ten.

"You know what the sad thing is?" Jones asked, as they were marched to an assembly line and instructed, _"Schnell arbeiten!"_

"What's that?" Morita responded.

"I'm in the work-camp of fascist, genocidal monsters, forced to toil until I'm exhausted, and fed barely enough to keep me going… and I'm still treated better than I was by the Negro-hating drill sergeants back at boot camp."

Even Bucky, who was clinging to consciousness by the skin of his teeth, couldn't help but be sobered by that.


	63. What We Keep In Our Pockets

We Were Soldiers

 _63\. What We Keep In Our Pockets_

Danny opened his eyes to a pale yellow ceiling. The breeze moved the chimes hanging from the window, and he was struck by a strong feeling of déjà vu. Experimentally, he tried to move his arm, but found his shoulder too heavily bandaged to move. It still hurt, but the pain was less, and he no longer felt dizzy and lightheaded. Did that mean he was okay? _No, not_ _… not okay_. He'd been injured before—broke his leg as a kid, when he fell out of a tree. It was an injury that had earned him an extra dose of the strap, since his leg in a pot meant he didn't fit in the cupboard for a while. But he knew how long it took a body to heal from something like that. He wouldn't go from _shot_ to _fine_ overnight. It would take time. But at least while he was healing from this one, he could still walk. Make his way back to camp before everything went to hell.

A face appeared above him, blocking his view of the yellow ceiling. It was a woman's face, lined around the eyes and mouth with age-creases. She looked familiar, and when she smiled down at him, he realised he'd seen her before.

"It is good to see you finally awake, Sergeant Wells," she said, with a lilting accent. Her voice was nice. Low, throaty. It said, _no nonsense_. No nonsense was good. He knew where he stood, with no nonsense.

"What happened? How do you know my name?" _Dog tags and chevrons, stupid._

"I know your name because you told me," she replied. He tried to sit up, but she pushed him back down. "Please do not try to move. You are very weak. It's been over a week since the doctor took the bullet out of your arm. It was very badly infected, and we feared you might not pull through."

He looked down across his bare chest at the bandage wrapped around his shoulder. Some hazy memory of a doctor hovering above him lingered in the back of his mind, as well as something about his dad. But it was all one long, uninterrupted nightmare. Had it really been over a week? How long since he'd been shot? Had the army given him up for dead? Sent the letter home? Were his parents gleefully burying all memories of their youngest son?

"God, I wish I had a glass of moonshine right now."

One of the woman's eyebrows rose. "Moon…shine?"

"Strong alcohol, usually produced illegally. Though, I'd settle for a weak alcohol produced legally," he told her.

"I do not allow alcohol in the house." She gestured at a pitcher of water on the bedside table, and a full glass beaker standing beside it. "I do have water. Would you like a drink?"

"Yeah. Thanks." It was better than nothing. Maybe he could _pretend_ it was alcohol.

The woman grabbed an extra pillow she'd been hiding under the bed, and helped him lean forward so she could prop it behind his back. She sat on the edge of his bed and picked up the glass of water, holding it to his lips. He accepted it grudgingly at first, with a small sip, but it ignited a deep thirst within him, and he quickly downed the whole glass. Somehow, right then, it managed to be _better_ than alcohol.

"Who are you?" he asked, once his thirst was quenched. "Where am I? And how did I get here?"

"My name is Rosa Bianchi," she said. "You are in my home. As for how you came to be here… my husband's uncle found you, some miles away. He is a truffle picker, and his work often takes him deep into the woods. He was out with his dog one morning when he came across you lying in the forest. At first he thought you were dead, but when he realised you were breathing, he brought you to me."

"Then, thank you. I owe you my life. I don't suppose you've heard of any American army camps nearby?"

She shook her head. "I know of no such camps. The Germans have an airfield some twenty-five kilometres away, and sometimes the officers come into the town, but that is the only military installation I know of."

"I need to get back to my camp." Recalled some dim idea about punching the colonel so he could get a dishonourable discharge.

"Will your people be looking for you?"

"Doubtful. I'm not that important. They've probably declared me KIA already." All the men left behind had probably been declared the same. Of course, nobody had taken their tags, so there may still be some doubt. _No tags, no death_. He felt for the tags in the pocket of his jacket, then remembered he was no longer wearing it. Panic rose from his stomach, bubbling into his chest before spilling over into his head. "Where's my jacket?"

"Over there, on the chair," said Rosa, gesturing to a nearby chair.

Relief washed the panic away. The bodies of the men who'd died could've been eaten by wolves or bears by now; they might never be found, even if there was anyone looking for them. Danny had to make sure their tags got back to the brass so they could be given proper funeral services. So their families could be informed that they were definitely K.I.A. and not just M.I.A. He imagined it was probably worse living with a loved one missing, rather than dead. Always looking up at the opening of the door, always hoping, expecting them back, never truly knowing whether there was any reason for hope. Yes, he would certainly make sure those tags made it home.

"Can you pass it to me?"

She did. Only when he held the jacket did he realise how dirty it was. He'd worn the thing every day since arriving in Europe, and had only managed to wash it a couple of times with tepid water. It was not only dusty, it was also bloodstained, and it smelt like it had been worn for three months in all weather.

He used his left hand to open the breast pocket, and pulled out the three tags from metal was cold against his skin, and he read them in turn. _James Hawkins. Anthony Jones._ Oh. So that had been his name. _Gilbert Martland_. By some miracle, his own name was not amongst them. It didn't seem fair that they'd died and he'd lived… yet he was grateful that he'd been spared. Some people may have put it down to divine intervention. _The grace of God_. But not Danny. It was pure dumb luck that had saved him from being killed outright, and the combination of a skilled physician and Rosa's care that had stopped him from succumbing to his injuries.

"Where are my socks?" he asked suddenly. He had to get the socks back to Barnes, otherwise his friend would kill him. He could already hear the lecture in his head. _That_ _'s the last time I let you borrow something._

"Everything you wore is in a drawer in the cabinet over there," said Rosa, leading his gaze to a chest of drawers with a wave of her hand.

Using his left hand, he lifted the blanket a little and found himself wearing a clean pair of grey linen pants.

"Who changed my clothes?"

"I did."

"Oh. Sorry 'bout that."

"How are you feeling?" she asked. "The doctor said you may experience weakness and exhaustion for some time."

"I'm hungry," he admitted. The glass of water had wakened a desire for something more substantial.

"Adalina is tending a pot of stew in the kitchen, and we have fresh bread in the oven."

"Thank you. I appreciate everything you've done for me. I don't wanna be a burden; if you fetch me my clothes, I'll get dressed and leave as soon as I've got something warm in my stomach."

"Eat first. Then you can see how you feel about moving."

"I'll be fine. Honestly." Besides, sooner or later he was gonna have to pee. Might as well get dressed at the same time.

Rosa merely gave him a very skeptical stare, then excused herself to check on dinner. He considered shouting after her, to ask if she could bring him a shirt, but decided against it. Maybe it had been too difficult to put a shirt on him with his shoulder so bandaged. Experimentally, he gave the dressing that had been taped down a small poke, and winced at the pain he caused himself. _Idiot. Probably just went and poked out a stitch or something._

He relaxed back, and closed his eyes. He wasn't tired, but he knew the more he slept, the faster his body would mend, and the sooner he'd be back at camp. He had too much to do, to waste time on being injured. He had tags to take back, a letter to explain—and possibly apologise for—and a colonel to punch. The sooner he got back to camp, the sooner he could discover how terribly he'd ruined things. If is father were here, he would be gloating right now.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The whisper of voices pulled Bucky's mind from sleep. The heavy _thud thud thud_ of booted feet encouraged his eyes to open. When the footsteps stopped outside his cell, he tried to push himself up, to give Colonel Lohmer no additional opportunity to make his life a further misery, but his aching limbs just didn't want to comply.

"That one," said an unfamiliar nasally voice. "Bring him."

An ominous shiver stole over his body. He didn't need to look up to know the owner of the voice was pointing right at him. The cell was opened, and he heard the guards approach. Forced himself not to back away as two pairs of rough hands tore the blanket from his shoulders and grabbed him under his arms, hauling him painfully to his feet.

"Where are you taking him?" he heard Dugan growl. There was no answer. When Dugan spoke again, his voice was even angrier. "I said, where are you—"

"Dugan, don't," Bucky gasped as the guards dragged him out of the cell. There was nothing Dugan could do, and his anger would only get him beaten again. Dugan's cheek was still blue from the last time he'd asked a question Lohmer deemed 'impertinent.'

When Bucky was brought face to face with his new tormentor, he blinked a few times, unsure if he was really seeing what he was seeing. The man was short, possibly even shorter than Steve, and had a pudgy face with beady eyes staring at Bucky from behind thin, wire-rimmed spectacles. He wore a long white lab coat, and in his arms he carried a clipboard on which were papers covered in German scrawl. He looked nothing like one of Lohmer's usual goons.

The man lifted his clipboard, ticked something off, then turned and walked away. The guards followed him like well-trained dogs, and Bucky was dragged with them, his legs too exhausted to lift his feet to try to walk. He tried to turn his head, to look back at the men in his cell and somehow convey that they had to carry on with the escape plan without him, but the guards walked too fast, and Bucky's neck ached too much for him to turn it enough to see.

He was taken down unfamiliar corridors, and he tried to commit his route to memory so that he could make his way back if he had to. After the fourth or fifth turn, however, his feverish mind was hopelessly lost. A strange sound reached his ears, a sort of soft mumbling. It took him a moment to realise it was the short man in the lab coat muttering to himself.

" _...no care at all for the value of the prisoners… so typical of soldiers… ought to report his conduct to Herr Schmidt…"_

Bucky's skin turned to gooseflesh at the mention of the name, and all doubts about this being a HYDRA operation fled. Schmidt?! The head of HYDRA? Was he here? If so, and if Bucky could get close, he could try to take the man out. Would HYDRA collapse without Schmidt at its head?

"Where are you taking me?" Bucky croaked.

His question went unanswered. Maybe the small man hadn't heard him. He asked again, louder. Same response.

The corridors got smaller. Narrower. Colder. Darker. He could no longer hear the near-constant sounds of machinery chugging and whirring on the factory floor. When he exhaled, his breath fogged the air. But it wasn't until he saw a single metal door at the end of the corridor that he truly began to worry.

 _The back room!_

It had to be. They were taking him to the back room, and Falsworth said nobody ever came back from the back room.

He found the strength, some last small reserve, to resist. He struggled, twisted, trying to free himself from the hands which held him. The guards barely even seemed to notice his struggle, and after a moment he gave up his feeble attempt, too exhausted to attempt more.

The door was opened and Bucky was carried into a laboratory. It was a cold, dark place and the sharp smell of iodine mingling with disinfectant wasn't enough to drown out the smell of blood and offal. His stomach turned, and he probably would've been sick if he'd had anything in to bring up.

"Let's start with blood samples," the doctor said without preamble. He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, and gestured at the table. Bucky's stomach turned again. "Remove his jacket and put him into the restraints."

A flicker of strength came back, fanned to life by a bubble of anger. The guards tried to wrestle him out of his jacket, and he tried to wrestle himself away from the guards. His jacket held a piece of something from the outside—he had to keep Wells' letter safe, because it was the only part of his friend that was left. If HYDRA got their hands on the letter, there would be nothing at all of Wells left in the world, and Bucky owed his friend enough to keep that one tiny part of him alive.

"Get off me!" he threatened, throwing a punch that lacked real strength. The guard shook it off, then jabbed the butt of his rifle into Bucky's stomach. Winded, exhausted, in agony, he tried to back away, but he was outnumbered and too sick. They overwhelmed him quickly, issuing a few kicks and punches before one of them threw him face-down on the floor and the other yanked the jacket from his body.

The doctor watched in silence as the guards hauled him onto the table and slipped strong leather restraints around his wrists and ankles, pulling them tight. The cold of the metal swiftly penetrated the thin material of his shirt, chilling his back and causing him to shiver. Lying flat on his back, he turned his head to watch his tormentors.

One of the guards picked up his jacket, and Bucky pulled against his restraints, to no effect. "Get your paws off my jacket, you Nazi bastard," he growled.

The doctor glanced briefly at the worn, dirty olive drab garment, and told the guard, "Burn it." The guard left the room, taking the jacket with him.

Bucky felt the fight go out of him. They were going to destroy the last part of Bucky's friend, but he'd read the letter enough times to know it by heart. Words that he couldn't unread were seared into his mind, and they couldn't take the words out of his head. Better that the letter was burned, than it was read by these bastards. Better that they not get their dirty, murderous hands on it and taint it with their evil.

"Now we can begin," the doctor said. He approached the table, clipboard in hands, and suddenly he seemed so much larger than he had before. His cold, uncompromising blue eyes stared down at Bucky like a hawk staring at a mouse. "Do you smoke?"

Bucky's mind went blank. "What?"

"I asked if you smoked," the doctor repeated. And then, seeing the confusion on Bucky's face, "Cigarettes, cigars, pipes. Do you smoke?"

"I… no. Why?"

The doctor ticked something on his clipboard, and Bucky's mind cartwheeled further into confusion. In boot camp, he'd been told that if he was captured by an enemy, he might be questioned. Perhaps even tortured, if he was captured by the uncivilised, savage Japanese. He'd been warned that the enemy might question him about his regiment, his superiors, his mission, troop placements, and other strategic information important to the war. Nobody had warned him that he might be asked about his smoking habits.

"Have you or anybody within your immediate family ever suffered from blood clots, lung disease, or tumours?"

Bucky clamped his mouth shut and focused on shivering in silence. He didn't know why he was being asked such strange questions, but his drill sergeants had warned him against answering any questions. In fact, there were only four pieces of information he could give when questioned, and he gave those now.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Rank: Sergeant. Service number: 3255—"

The doctor scowled and reached with his hand down towards Bucky's throat. Bucky closed his eyes, braced himself for pain… and felt a tug as his tags were ripped from his neck. They jangled together like a windchime as the doctor lifted them up and then dumped them in a metal bowl on a nearby surgical trolley.

"Not any longer," the short man said. "Now you are Subject 36."

Bucky's mouth went dry. He swallowed, trying to work some moisture back with his tongue. Fixing his gaze on the dark stone ceiling, he said, "My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Rank, Sergeant. Service number, 32557038. Age, 26."

The doctor favoured him with an unreadable smile. "Keep believing that, if you wish. Perhaps it will give you the strength to endure, when so many who came before you… did not."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Panting, Steve turned up the street towards the hotel and slowed his pace to a loping jog for the last hundred metres. It was all the cool-down he needed after an intense sprint around Palermo.

Though the sun was its own height above the horizon, the roads were pretty quiet. He'd purposely taken to running in the early hours to avoid any awkward questions if he was seen sprinting faster than a man ought to be able to run. There wasn't much chance of him running into soldiers at this hour; most of them were abed in their respective camps, on the outskirts of the city, but Palermo's local population were early risers and the streets would soon be full of sellers hawking their wares.

When he reached the hotel door, he spent a few minutes stretching and bending, working his muscles after their work-out. Poised with body bent over his straightened leg so he could grab the toe of his shoe, foot resting atop the waist-high wall which ran around the outside of the hotel, he heard laughs and giggles from the street nearby. He glanced under his arm at a small group of young women—locals—watching him and giggling to each other as they conversed in Italian. They were the same group who'd been there yesterday, and the day before. It hadn't taken them long to notice his early morning exercise schedule. All Steve could think was, _a pity Bucky isn_ _'t here._ His friend would've simply loved being the attention of so many pretty dames.

In image of Bucky's grinning face popped into Steve's mind. So far, he hadn't been able to find his friend in Palermo, but that didn't mean he wasn't somewhere on the island. Every evening, Steve made a point of visiting some of the bars which soldiers were known to frequent. He'd given up hope of seeing Bucky's face in the crowd, but now he looked instead for information. He'd met a communications clerk, a man named Wintergreen, who—in exchange for an autographed photo of Captain America—had searched the records of soldiers K.I.A. during Operation Husky, and Bucky's name wasn't amongst them. That either meant that Bucky had survived the operation and was somewhere else on the island, or he hadn't been assigned to the operation in the first place and was somewhere else entirely.

The young women disappeared when Steve made a beeline for the door of the building and made it obvious he wasn't going to be breaking with tradition by talking to them today. It wasn't that he disliked the attention; it was just strange, and a little sad. If Steve had looked like his pre-serum self, the eyes of those girls would've skipped right over him. Just about any dame who'd ever given him the time of day back then was Mary-Ann, but she was Bucky's sister, and like a sister to Steve, too.

 _Don_ _'t forget Agent Carter,_ his inner-observer pointed out. _She smiled at you even before the serum._

He tried to ignore that thought, as he tried to ignore the blush slowly heating his cheeks at the thought of Agent Carter smiling at him. _Just encouragement,_ he told his inner-observer. _That_ _'s all it was. Encouragement for the skinny, asthmatic underdog._

To distract himself, he took his pulse as he walked. It was steady, a little over sixty beats per minute. Pretty damn slow, considering he'd just had an extended dash around Palermo. Another benefit of the serum. Even when he exerted himself, he didn't get truly tired. Though there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, his body was already cooling and slowing. Being super-fit definitely had its advantages.

He considered hopping straight into the building's single shower, since it was free as he passed it… but he had no clean clothes to change into. "Where's the sense in putting dirty clothes on a clean body?" Mom used to say when Steve was a kid, before hauling out the metal bathtub and placing it in front of the fire.

When he reached his room, he pulled a clean shirt from his drawer, along with clean socks and underpants. He added a pair of fresh trousers for the pile, and glanced around for his jacket. A small frown played across his brows when he spotted the empty chair beside the dresser. He was sure he'd tossed his jacket over the back of it before falling into bed late last night.

He looked around, but it wasn't on the floor, either. A knot of worry began to form in his stomach, and he closed his eyes, recalling the moment he'd opened his bedroom door. Had it been locked? Yes, he'd locked it. Definitely had to turn the key to get in. That meant nobody could've come in and stolen it. But… the window was open. _No, no, foolish_. He was on the third floor. No chance of anybody getting in through the window.

He checked his wardrobe, in case he'd hung his jacket up without remembering. He searched under the bed. In his drawers. After a few minutes he'd ransacked the entire room, and his heart was now pounding in his chest. When he heard a knock on his bedroom door, he took two long strides and flung it open, half expecting somebody to be standing there holding his missing jacket.

Instead, Kevin blinked at him through bleary eyes. Clad in nothing but his undergarments and a dressing robe, he looked like he'd just stumbled straight out of bed.

"What's going on, Steve?" he yawned. "It sounds like a tornado just hit your room." His eyes widened as he caught sight of clothes strewn around Steve's floor and the furniture dumped unceremoniously in random places. "What the—"

"I've lost my jacket!" Steve blurted out. "I mean, I haven't lost it; it's missing."

"Did you check with Leda? She knows you go running early, maybe she took it for washing."

Steve frowned again. "She's only supposed to take things from the floor." But maybe the Greek woman who did the laundry for the third floor had thought she was being helpful by taking his jacket for washing. "Thanks, Kevin," he said, dashing past and racing towards the stairwell.

He took the stairs two at a time. Then he remembered he was very athletic, and leapt down each flight, landing firmly on his feet before darting to the top of the next flight. He had a hairy moment when his balance—still a work in progress—teetered upon landing, but he recovered by bouncing conveniently off the wall, knocking out only a little plaster in the process.

At the ground floor, he raced out of the stairwell, down the corridor, and to the smaller maintenance staircase which allowed the various workers to go about their business without crossing paths too often with the guests. The stairs here were smaller, undecorated bare concrete, and a chill crept over Steve as the cool air caressed his skin. During his first night in the building, he'd unknowingly gone down the maintenance staircase and been chased out by a fearsome woman with a feather duster who'd shouted at him in Italian. Feeling like a naughty kid being chastised by his mom, he fled. Now, he hoped he wouldn't run in to that same woman again, because if she tried to stop him, he'd have to be firm with her, and he didn't really know how to be firm with a woman who didn't speak any English.

He heard the chatter of the staff down the corridor, and followed the voices until he came to a wide, bare stone laundry room. The women who performed domestic work were already hard at it despite the early hour; they knelt in two rows over washtubs filled with hot water and bubbling suds, each one of them dragging some item of clothing up and down their washboards.

They didn't see right away, so he had a moment to scan their faces for one that was more familiar. At first, he didn't recognise Leda; she had a dark kerchief wrapped around her head to keep her long brown hair from dangling into the tub. As he watched, she ran the back of her hand across the sheen of sweat on her forehead, and a few white suds clung to her skin. When Steve spotted the familiar olive drab material half-submerged in the suds, he sprang forward with a cry that made all the women jump in fright.

"No, no, no no!" he said, as he rushed towards Leda and snatched the material out of her hands. The jacket was completely sodden. Water poured from it as he lifted it up, splashing all over his pants and his boots. Around him, the women were chattering at him, frowns fixed on their faces, fingers shaking in admonishment. Steve barely noticed them. He barely even noticed how Leda had jumped back, her face ashen at this strange act of roughness from him.

 _Please be there please be there please be there._

He chanted his mantra in his head as he stuck his hand in the inner breast pocket. It was empty. He turned his eyes to Leda's stricken face.

"Where is it?" he demanded. It wasn't in his pocket; that meant the tiny photos of his mom and dad weren't ruined by water. But it was still missing. "My locket," he said, grabbing Leda's wrist when she failed to answer. "Where is my locket? It was in this pocket, right here. Tell me where it is!"

"Safe!" she cried, and pointed towards an envelope on one of the shelves on the wall. "Safe."

Steve let go of her wrist and, still holding the jacket, took two long strides to the shelf. He grabbed the envelope, opened it up, and found the silver locket nestled there. For the first time since finishing his run, his heart finally started beating normally again. The metal was cool against his skin when he tipped the locket onto his palm. With shaking fingers, he gently opened it up and looked at the faces within. Mom and Dad smiled back at him, none the wiser about their near-washing experience.

"Leda," he said, guilt prickling within him, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you, but this locket is very precious to me. Please don't take my jacket again; please just take the clothes from the floor."

"But sir," she said, eyes wide and moist with unshed tears that pushed Steve to a whole new level of guilt, "it was on floor."

"Oh. I guess it must'a fallen off the chair." Next time, he would hang it in the wardrobe. He should'a know that after days of taking only dirty clothes on the floor, Leda wouldn't go randomly taking clean ones.

Leda chewed her bottom lip as she began picking at the hem of her water-stained apron. "Please, am sorry. Please not tell Mr. Maniscalco. He think thief. I lose job."

"Of course I won't tell him," he assured her. "It was just a misunderstanding. You do good work, Leda. My clothes always come back smelling fresh." And he'd just about gotten over his horror at the idea of a strange woman washing his underwear. Kevin had thought he was crazy for worrying about propriety like that. "If Mr. Maniscalco asks, I'll tell him you're a very good worker. A hard worker."

A small smile softened her face. She'd picked up English faster than her Italian co-workers; they still tended to slip into German before remembering the people walking their streets weren't German anymore. Steve suspected they did it on purpose, though Mr. Maniscalco was quick to stamp down such slips; he wanted the people in his hotel—and their money—to feel welcome regardless of their nationality. Mr. Maniscalco reminded Steve very much of Kevin, sometimes.

"Thank you, sir. I work hard for you. I no make mistake again." She reached out to gently pull at the sodden jacket he still held in one hand. "I finish now?"

"Yes. Yes, thank you. I'll leave you to your work. I'm sorry again for scaring you."

The other women at their washboards gave him dirty looks as he left, but he supposed he couldn't blame them. He was just glad Leda was assigned to the third floor; he'd heard complaints from some of the other USO staff that their clothes sometimes came back still dirty, or smelling stale. Maybe the Greek woman washed clothes differently, or maybe she just didn't care that the Allies now held Sicily.

Glancing down at the locket, he put all thoughts of washing aside as he opened the clasp once more to look at the faces of his parents.

"Don't worry," he told them, "you're safe now. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

What would he do if he lost the locket? It had belonged to his mother, and it was the one link he had to both of his parents. He'd kept some of his mom's belongings, after she'd died, but he had nothing else of Dad. Without the locket, his family wouldn't be real; it would be a memory. Less than a memory, because Dad had died before Steve was even born. It would be an _idea_.

With a shiver of cold, he unhooked the tiny clasp, fastened it around his neck, and tucked the pendant beneath his shirt, so that it hung beside his tags. Now he could feel them pressing gently against his skin. He would never lose them again.


	64. La Casa di Rosa

We Were Soldiers

 _64\. La Casa di Rosa_

The next time Danny opened his eyes, it was almost dark. A creak of the floorboards outside the open bedroom door roused him fully, and a kid appeared in a pool of warm yellow light, courtesy of the oil lamp he carried in his hands. The boy stepped into the room, his movements hesitant and furtive as he crept crossed the floor and set the lamp down on the bedside table.

"Hello," said Danny.

The boy glanced up at him, then quickly looked away, as if afraid to be seen anywhere near an American soldier. Danny supposed he couldn't blame him; American troops had helped to turn his country into a war zone. But that didn't mean a kid had to be afraid of them.

"What's your name?" he asked, as the boy reached up and pulled the curtains closed across the window. "You don't need to be afraid, I'm not gonna hurt you."

The boy's head turned sharply to regard Danny through the same brown eyes that his mother and sister possessed. A look of guilt crossed his face, and his eyes darted towards the door as if calculating how long it would take him to escape.

"My name's Danny," he continued.

This time, the boy shrank back towards the door, slipping out quietly in the shadows. _Huh. Must be shy._ The kid probably wasn't used to seeing strangers in his house. A moment after the boy left, Rosa appeared with a tray of something that smelled delicious.

"Was that your son?" Danny asked her.

"Yes. That was Paolo."

"I think I might'a made him nervous."

"Paolo is a sensitive boy, easily overwhelmed by change. I think he was not expecting you to survive your injury."

"Sorry to disappoint him."

"You did not." She put the tray of food down and helped him sit up a little higher, propping a couple of pillows behind his back to support his weight. Her care reminded him of the nurses, back at camp, especially Audrey. She was kinder than the other nurses, less rough, especially to Gusty's friends.

He surprised himself with a pang of something in his stomach—something other than hunger. He thought it might be regret, or sadness, or home sickness. Right now, alone in a strange place, he missed Gusty, and Audrey, and Biggs, and all the others back at camp, even Hodge! He missed them in a way that he supposed one missed their absent friends. This, like his confusing and worrisome feelings about Barnes, was all very new.

"I didn't want to wake you earlier," Rosa continued, "you seemed fast asleep, so I kept this warm for you."

She sat on the edge of his bed and reached for the spoon. He flung out a hand to stop her.

"Please, Rosa, I can feed myself." He'd never hear the end of it, when he got back to camp, if the guys learnt he'd been spoon-fed by somebody old enough to be his mother.

"Very well."

She gave him the spoon, and set the tray across his lap. He very quickly realised he probably should have let Rosa feed him. All his life he'd used his right hand for everything, and had taken it very much for granted. Now, he was forced to use his left hand, and even the simple act of spooning stew to his mouth was more difficult than he ever would have imagined. Why couldn't the damn Nazis have shot him in his left shoulder?

"This is very good," he said, when he'd managed to get the first half a bowl mostly in his mouth. "What's in it?"

"Kid."

He halted with the full spoon halfway between his mouth and the bowl. His stomach did some pretty unpleasant things. Seeing his confusion, Rosa elaborated.

"As in, the meat of a young goat. And vegetables."

"Oh. I never knew a young goat was called a kid."

"There are no goats, in America?"

"Not in New York. At least, none that I know of." They sat in silence for a moment, and all sorts of questions ran through Danny's mind. _Intel_ , his drill sergeants back at boot camp had told him, _is essential to any campaign._ Without intel, you were shootin' blind.

But despite having slept a whole lot recently, Danny was very, very tired. Even now he was fighting against exhaustion just to stay awake and keep eatin' stew. Was that what infection did to you? Did it drain your body of all its strength, so you could do nothing but lie there, and sleep, and let other people feed you and clothe you?

Intel could wait until tomorrow. And Rosa seemed to know that he was in no condition to be up and moving around; she made no effort to fetch his clothes, and when he'd finished all the stew he could manage—three quarters of a bowl—she took it from him and set it aside, so he didn't have to reach out.

"Thank you, it was delicious," he said. Better than anything the army had ever served him.

"You're welcome. You should get some sleep. Your body will mend itself faster, the more you rest it."

"I'm not tired," he lied.

"You will be, very soon. The doctor left an antibiotic and a sleeping powder for you. I put them into your stew."

"Oh." That explained why he felt like he had lead weights attached to his eyelids. Why all he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep for another week. He probably ought to have been worried that he'd just been drugged, but he was too tired to care. Besides, he'd spent the past few days mostly unconscious, and nothing bad had happened to him. Maybe this was the good kind of drugging, if there ever was such a thing.

Finally too exhausted to stay awake, he closed his eyes and was so soundly asleep that he didn't hear the creak of the floor as Rosa left.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

A night of real sleep did wonders for Danny. The next morning, he still felt physically tired, he still ached, but his outlook was much brighter, his mind refreshed by its long hours of silence. The sun shone warmly through the thin curtains over the window despite the turning of the season, and he knew that this was the day he would be back on his feet.

His bladder was very insistent about that.

Decorum kept him from springing out of bed and heading out of the bedroom to explore the house. So far, Rosa seemed to be the only one in the family who spoke any English, and he didn't think the sight of him appearing at random, shirtless and wearing a pair of trousers three sizes too big for him, would go down very well.

Rosa appeared not long after he woke, as if sensing his desire to be up and around. She opened the curtains fully, then lay her hand on his forehead to check his temperature.

"Can I get out of bed now?" he asked. "I'd really like to use your bathroom."

"I'm afraid you'll find us rather primitive, compared to your New York," she said. "We have an outhouse."

"Hey, an outhouse is a step up from the pits an army on the move uses."

"Very well. I'll show you to the outhouse, and then perhaps you'd like some breakfast?"

"I would love some breakfast," he assured her. "And thank you, again. I really don't want to be a burden."

"Why do you think you are a burden?"

"Well, because you've had to take care of me, and feed me, and clothe me—literally. I'm sorry if I'm taking up your time."

"I believe we have a duty to care for all who are sick or injured," she said.

"Even strangers? I mean, you don't know anything about me. For all you know, I might be some kinda nutjob"

"If you prove troublesome, I can simply hand you over to the German troops who come by once in a while to pretend that we are all friends and that everything is going well."

She said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that he didn't doubt for even a moment that she wouldn't hesitate to do it if he did indeed prove troublesome.

"I promise I won't be troublesome," he assured her, and hoped he sounded sincere.

She gave a tiny nod, a small measure of approval in her brown eyes. "I'm glad we understand each other. Now, let us see about getting you to the outhouse, hmm?"

Rosa gave him a clean shirt which, like the pants, was three sizes too big for him, then helped him out of bed. It was too painful to move his right arm, so he left the shirt sleeve loose over it. He managed to stand, though it made him light-headed to do so, and she must have thought he looked unsteady, because she hovered by his side like an overly cautious hummingbird as he took his first steps.

Though, perhaps she was more hawk than hummingbird.

Walking past the vanity unit, the blur of motion caught his eye. On shaky legs, he stepped towards it, and when he looked into the mirror, a stranger looked back.

Familiar blue eyes regarded him from a face he barely recognised. His black hair was dishevelled above skin that was sallow and clammy, and dark purple crescents beneath his eyes made his sockets look deep and hollow. His cheeks were gaunt, and covered by rough, dark stubble which gave him an air of vagrancy. Below the open-neck shirt, his collarbone was painfully visible, and he could make out the shape of his upper ribs below it. The shirt hung off him not only because the man it belonged to was larger, but because Danny had withered whilst he'd been in that bed. No wonder Rosa hovered near.

"Exactly how sick was I?" he asked.

"We did not expect you to survive. You are very lucky. Had you not been strong and healthy before you were shot, you would probably have died."

 _I look like I still might._

If he went back to camp now, would anybody even recognise him? Of course, that was a stupid question to ask, in his present condition. He had no idea where he was, had no idea whether the camp was still there, and probably couldn't even make it ten yards without help, much less ten miles.

"Come," said Rosa, taking his arm and leading him towards the door. "It does not do to dwell on what has happened. It is better to look to the future. Your recovery starts today."

He let himself be guided down the stairs, and they stepped out into a homely kitchen painted in warm terracotta and cream. The first thing he could smell was bread baking in the oven, and the scent of drying herbs hanging upside down from the rafters hit him straight after. It was a heady, exotic smell which immediately made him hungry.

The view from the kitchen door was of small meadows and craggy mountains, a patchwork of rolling pastures bordered by conical evergreens and gold-hued deciduous forests. Though the sun was shining, Danny felt a chill in the air when Rosa opened the door. Winter was definitely lurking around the corner.

"It is a short walk to the outhouse," she said, and offered her arm.

Danny took it. Walking this far had tired him, and he didn't want to be so exhausted that he collapsed in the outhouse. Might as well try to cling to whatever was left of his dignity. He just hoped she wasn't planning on propping him up while he used the damn thing.

Rosa's house was built on the slope of a rolling hill that was probably a little too small to be called a mountain, in the lee of a forest of green and gold trees. There was another building fifty metres away, almost as wide and as long as the house, but with only a ground floor—a barn, he guessed. A wooden fence ran around the outside, incorporating the building into its structure. It reminded Danny of the fences around his Uncle Pete's ranch, only, this fence wasn't so tall or sturdy. Definitely not built to contain horses.

"You keep animals?" he asked, nodding to the barn.

Rosa nodded, a smile playing across her lips. "Goats, for their milk. I make cheese; artisan cheese. Before the war, my cheeses sold far and wide, and were renowned for their quality." The smile faded. "Now, times are leaner. It is not so easy to sell far away. Now, I mostly sell in the nearby towns and villages. War has tightened purses everywhere. Produce which once brought in many lire, now bring in few. These days, my goats are as valuable for their meat as their milk. Times are leaner." She took a deep breath, and he felt her steel herself, her back straightening as they walked. "But we will persevere. Things may be bad now, but not quite as bad as during the Depression. At one point I was down to three goats, and had barely enough to feed my children."

Danny tried not to dwell on the image of Rosa slaughtering her goats just to feed her hungry kids. He remembered the Great Depression, though his family hadn't been too hard done by. Tim had already been in the Navy by that point, and sent home a portion of his pay each month. Their father's pension was fairly generous, too, after so many years of service. Danny was lucky; he was the youngest son. Owen got Tim's hand-me-downs, and then they got handed down to Connor. By the time they reached Danny, they were so threadbare and stained that not even his parents would deign to let him be seen wearing them. Most of his clothes were new, or—during the Depression—from the thrift store. But even thrift-store clothes were better than third-generation hand-me-downs.

By the time they reached the small, stained-wood outhouse, Danny had put aside all thoughts of the Depression and was silently willing his bladder to hold on for _just one more minute_. Thankfully, Rosa decided to stay outside. As soon as Danny stepped into the gloomy interior, he yanked down the too-large pants and relieved himself of a surprising amount of water, to say he'd been asleep for most of the past week. The burning, need-to-pee discomfort fled swiftly, and before stepping back out into the world, he closed his eyes to shield his vision from the glare of daylight.

He'd hoped Rosa might have moved a short distance away, but she was right there, hovering like that damn humming-hawk again, poised to grab him at the slightest wobble. Danny waved her away, and took a couple of steps forward to look more closely at the cluster of houses a short way down the valley. They were all grey stone and dazzling white plaster. Terracotta roof tiles featured heavily, as did balconies around the upper windows. It seemed a cheery, exotic place; certainly much nicer than Aureille, where he and Barnes had left Matilda.

"That's your village?" he asked.

"Yes. Castello Lavazzo."

"You said the Nazis sometimes come here..?"

She nodded, a sour expression pulling at her lips. "For entertainment, mostly."

"How often."

"It depends on how their air campaigns are doing. It is mainly pilots we see here. When they are grounded due to weather, we see them every few days. When they have missions to fly; less so. Sometimes they come to the house, and purchase my cheeses for far less than they are worth."

"Do you have a map I could look at?"

"No." She scoffed. "Nobody keeps maps, these days. The last man who had one was accused of being _Resistenza_ , and of planning attacks on Nazi facilities. He was taken away, and we never saw him again."

Little chance of him figuring his way back to camp, then. He'd had a map for the mission to recover the supplies, but had no idea where it was now. Probably still lying where he'd been shot. But maybe he didn't need a map. There were other ways of getting back.

"Are there any members of the Resistance here? People who'd know where enemy and allied camps are located?"

"Even if I knew, I would not tell you. Perhaps you are a German spy, come to uncover any hint of resistance." Her brown eyes issued him a challenging glare. "Perhaps you should tell me a little of your life, so that I know you are not a German undercover operative."

"Or maybe _you_ _'re_ a German sympathiser trying to find out as much as you can about me before handing me over to your Gestapo buddies," he countered. "After all, I was shot and nearly dead, and yet you managed to find and save me."

"Oh? This from a man who claims he is so unimportant that his own people would not be looking for him? If I was a German sympathiser looking for intelligence, you would be a poor catch, I think."

He had to admit, she had a point. "Then maybe we should try for a little trust," he suggested. "I'll believe that you're not a German sympathiser, if you'll believe I'm not a Kraut spy."

"I think I can agree to that." She offered her hand, and he shook it. He wasn't at all surprised to find she had a very firm grip.

"Are we anywhere near Como? Our forces took it a couple of weeks ago; I could find a way back to my camp from there."

"Como?" She cocked her head. "I have never been there. Where is it near?"

"Not far from Milan."

"Then it is very far away. I am sorry, Daniel."

He winced. "Danny, please. Nobody but my folks calls me Daniel."

"Very well."

A new idea struck. "How far is it to the Swiss border?"

Rosa sighed and shook her head. "Far enough for a healthy man in the middle of summer. For a man in your condition, and with us on winter's doorstep, it would be suicide. Though, I admire your dedication to return to the fight."

"I have promises to keep." And socks to return.

"It is good to know you are a man of your word, then," she said, apparently unfamiliar with Robert Frost. "Now, I suggest we return to the house so that you can sit down and eat something. You look terrible."

"Gee, thanks." But food did sound like a good idea, so when she offered her arm again, he accepted. "Your English is very good," he said. Far better than Roberto's had been. In fact, he was surprised anyone this far out in the sticks spoke any English at all.

"Thank you. When I was a girl, I had a pen-pal in England. You pick up languages more easily, as a child."

He nodded. That was how he'd learnt French. Listening to and talking to Grandpa. He'd loved speaking French; it was like their own private language. His brothers had learnt it too, of course, but Grandpa always favoured Danny. He was the youngest, and _le moins Irlandais_ , as Grandpa would say. _The least Irish._

When they reached the house, Rosa led him in through the kitchen door and seated him at the varnished wood dining table. He sank gratefully into the chair, and wondered how long it would be before he could do anything as exciting as a jumping jack. If he attempted now, he'd probably kill himself. Or maybe Rosa would kill him, first.

"You are from New York?" she asked, as she busied herself at the kitchen worktop.

"Born and raised."

"What is it like?"

"Oh… big, noisy, crowded." He gave a vague wave of his hand. How could you describe New York to someone who'd never been there?

"You make it sound unpleasant."

"It's home. I miss it," he admitted. "Nobody's ever tried to shoot at me, in New York. You certainly don't walk down the street and run head first into Nazis."

"Is it much like London?"

"I don't know; I've never been to London. Have you?"

She nodded. "When I was younger. I visited the pen-pal I told you of. Spent time in her home, with her family. We enjoyed visiting the sights together. For me, it was an entirely new world. So many people, dressed so smartly, talking in smart ways. I felt very small."

"Well, I hope to see London, someday," he said. "Then I'll be able to tell you whether it compares to New York."

"Have you family, back home?"

"Sure. Three brothers, though they're all away fighting in the war. An uncle and a cousin, out in Wyoming. My folks are in New York." And there wasn't a chance he was stepping foot inside their home ever again. Even if it meant being alone, even if it meant never speaking to any of them for the rest of his life. He would rather be alone than go back. When he realised he was scowling, he tried to smooth his brows and asked, "What about you? You live here alone with your kids?"

Before answering, she brought over a small plate on which she'd prepared a thick slice of warm bread smothered with butter and a layer of pale, cream-coloured cheese. Accompanying it was a earthenware cup of hot milk, straight from the pot on the stove. Danny didn't need to be told to eat; his body insisted. After so long without solid food, he could only take small mouthfuls, but he managed to finish the whole plate while Rosa told him about her family.

"This is my husband's house; it belonged to his mother. She died two years ago, and it is her bedroom in which you have lain recovering. My husband works hard in the village; he is a blacksmith, one of two who own the only forge for many miles. He spends his days working metal and training his apprentice. Adalina tends the goats; she is learning my trade. Paolo attends school; he studies mathematics most of all. His favourite subject."

"Hey, I like math, too. It's what I did before signing up. Accounting."

Rosa favoured him with a genuine smile. "Then perhaps Paolo can pester you to help with his homework. I tire of him asking questions I can't answer."

"I'd love to help, if you don't mind translating. But, if this is your husband's house, what about your own parents, and any other family?"

"I have none, that I know of. I know only what I was told by the overseer of the orphanage where I was raised; that my mother died in childbirth, and my father went off to seek his death in the Boxer Rebellion. Not even my family name was passed over when I was left in the orphanage's care."

"Was it hard, growing up without a family?" He'd often wondered how much more pleasant his own childhood might have been, if he'd been raised in an orphanage. On particularly dark days, he'd even considered making his way to one and claiming to be an orphan. Time and time again again he'd practised his grovelling _'please take me in,'_ speech. Never actually had the guts to go through with it; his father would'a killed him, if he caught him.

"Sometimes, yes." Her lips twisted into a sad smile, her gaze losing focus as her mind went back in time. "When you are an orphan, you have nothing, not even a single lira to your name. I was lucky; the church where I grew up ran a program to support orphans. It was they who helped me find a pen-pal, and secured me passage when her family invited me to visit them. And when I was there, her parents were good to me. When I became a young woman, and expressed an interest in learning culinary skills, my friend's father secured training for me in England. I worked as a domestic servant whilst I trained, and saved up enough money to return to Italy and go to school in Rome. That is where I met my husband, whilst he was on a business trip with the man he was at the time apprenticed to."

"I wish I'd had a pen-pal when I was a kid," he mused, as he downed the last of the odd-tasting milk. Goats' milk, he suspected. "Is that why you're teaching your daughter your trade? So that she has a skill in case the worst should happen to you and your husband?"

She gave a quiet grunt. "You are astute. And yes; I wish Adalina to be able to stand on her own two feet. Many young women wish only to find nice husbands, but a woman with skills can often find a better husband than one without… if her heart allows it."

"Sounds like there's a story behind that sentiment," he grinned.

The glare she gave him was definitely on the frosty side. "If your stomach will allow it, I will give you a small sweet pastry. Then you will go back to bed and sleep. I can see this all talking and eating and walking has tired you out."

"I'm not tired at all," he said, hiding a genuine yawn—a real, deep, eye-watering yawn—behind his hand. "But since I am a guest in your house, I will of course defer to your wisdom," he acquiesced, which he thought was rather good of him.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"…and then Davies took out a concussion grenade, pulled the pin, and threw it as far across the lake as he could manage. I thought the blast would be heard for miles around; had visions of the Krauts appearing and catching us with our pants down as we picked stunned fish out of the lake."

"Why would you take your pants off for that?" Rosa asked, handing him another onion to peel.

Danny waved the paring knife dismissively in the air. "It's just an expression."

"This 'Davies' of yours sounds very resourceful."

He nodded in mute agreement. After several hours of sleep, Rosa had declared him fit enough to make himself useful. She was preparing dinner—something she called _gnocchi_ , served with vegetables—and had given Danny the job of chief onion peeler. Not an easy task, with his right arm out of play. So far, he'd peeled a grand total of one onion.

The back door flew open, and two people practically toppled inside, their chattering voices falling silent when they saw Danny at the kitchen table. He waved the knife at Rosa's son and daughter, then realised he was probably an idiot for waving a knife at two kids.

"Non stare lì a bocca aperta; chiudere la porta prima che il resto del mondo che si segue in!" Rosa yammered at them. The girl closed the kitchen door behind her, and they both took another step forward. Through wide brown eyes they watched him warily, as Mrs. O'Malley's cat had watched him from behind the window of her home, when he'd been a kid.

"Uh, hi," he offered. "Mi chiamo Danny."

"You speak Italian?" Rosa asked, her face etched with the first inkling of surprise he'd ever seen from her.

"Oh, sure. All two words of it. I had a book, briefly. _Conversational Italian for the Casual Holidaymaker_ , or something like that." She stared at him blankly. "My superiors thought I'd make a good translator. I told them it was stupid."

Rosa issued a command to her offspring. The girl rolled her eyes, grabbed a wooden bucket, and disappeared back outside. The boy darted towards the stairs and ran up them two at a time, a workbook clasped firmly against his chest.

"You run a tight ship," he observed.

"Ship?"

"It's just an ex—"

"An expression," she nodded. "Americans seem to have many expressions for saying simple things."

"Just a part of our charm." He tried for a disarming smile. Suspected it didn't work when she merely snorted and returned to dicing several huge tomatoes.

A blur of movement caught Danny's eye from the window. He watched as Adalina took the bucket to a nearby well and began hauling water up. The Danny Wells of six months ago wouldn't have hesitated in dashing outside to offer his assistance carrying the heavy bucket back. The Danny Wells of right now knew he couldn't afford to do anything that might make him seem troublesome, lest Rosa decide to turn him over to the Nazis after all. Besides, he only had the use of his left hand, and he couldn't even manage to peel a damn onion. Perhaps heavy lifting could come later.

Much later.

When she returned to the kitchen, the girl poured some of the water into a large pan, and lifted it on top of the stove. Then, with a quick smile for Danny, she disappeared up the stairs, no doubt to change her dusty clothes and wash before dinner.

Eventually, Rosa took pity on him, and took the onion from him. Instead, she made him stir the pan of gnocchi which was heating slowly in the water. The vegetables were added to a second large pan, and not long after that, the event that Danny had been dreading occurred without warning; Rosa's husband came home.

The man was a couple of inches taller than Danny, and broad across his shoulders and upper back. He came in smelling of sweat, his skin dirty and soot-stained from those long hours smithing, no doubt. His black hair was shaggy and as sweaty as his shirt, and he didn't bother hiding his scowl when his eyes fell on Danny stirring the pan. Inside, Danny felt his stomach shrivel. _The curse strikes again_.

Fathers hated him. His own father, other fathers on the street, the fathers of girls he'd stepped out with… it was as if he had some sort of father-angering device inside him that he just couldn't switch off. No matter how nice, and unassuming, and sensible he'd tried to be, they were determined to see the worst in him. He couldn't remember a single dame he'd dated whose father could tolerate him, much less openly approved of him. He still couldn't figure out whether it was his problem, or theirs.

"Danny, this is my husband, Matteo," Rosa said. Then, glaring at her husband, "Matteo, Danny si sente molto meglio oggi. Dire ciao a lui, e di essere piacevole."

Rosa's husband ran his eyes over Danny, gave a wordless grunt, then disappeared up the stairs. Perhaps that was how things were done in Italy. Perhaps there was no formal introduction, no hand-shaking, no pleasantries. Just grunting.

"Tsk! Look at that," Rosa sighed, throwing her hands into the air as she stared at something on the floor behind the door. It turned out to be dirt that her husband had tracked into the house on his boots. "Every day, I tell him, take your boots off at the back door! Every day, he forgets."

"You have a broom or something?" Danny asked. "Want me to sweep it out?"

She clucked her tongue. "No, I will make Matteo do it. If I make him do it enough, he might even remember one day."

The mental image of the big man being nagged into sweeping up by his wife played out across Danny's mind, and it somehow ended with it being the fault of Danny himself. He wasn't sure _how_ it was his fault, but he could feel the disapproval radiating from the man even _before_ he'd been nagged in front of a stranger.

"C'mon, a little sweeping is the least I can do after what you've done for me," he assured her. And, before she could further object, he grabbed the broom he spotted behind the door and did his best one-handed attempt at sweeping.

He heard the patter of feet on the stairs, then a girlish laugh. When he turned his head, he noticed Adalina standing at the bottom of the stairs, pointing and laughing as she sang something in Italian at her mother.

"She wonders why you are doing a woman's job," Rosa translated, not softening the blow in the slightest.

"Because a woman's soft hands are wasted on such menial work," he replied with a smile for the young woman. Then, he mentally kicked himself. _You shouldn_ _'t flirt with dames when you possibly maybe might have feelings for a guy, idiot. That's just stupid._

When Rosa translated his words back, Adalina merely laughed, and brushed past him to take plates from a cupboard, which she set out on the table. Then, everything happened at once. Rosa shouted up the stairs. Heavy footsteps came thudding from above; Rosa's husband had changed his shirt, but he still smelt like Danny and his fellow soldiers after two days of solid marching. The big man took a seat at the table and waited.

A second, softer pair of footsteps coming down the stairs materialised into Paolo. Head tucked down, he slipped quickly from the staircase to the table, and went from furtively standing to furtively sitting in one fluid motion. Adalina placed a pitcher of water in the centre of the table, Rosa drained the gnocchi and the vegetables, and suddenly everybody was seated and Danny was left holding the broom.

"Hurry up, Danny, the food is going cold," Rosa said.

He'd done his best with the dirt, so he shoved the broom back behind the door and took one of the two free seats at the table. He purposely chose the one that put him next to Rosa. She seemed like the most effective body-guard if her giant of a husband started liking him even less.

He quickly learnt that Italians did not stand on formality. There was no _Grace_ said before the meal started. There was no passing the choicest morsels to the man of the house, and waiting for his permission before picking up a fork. In fact, there were barely forks. Everybody grabbed whatever they wanted, spooning as much of the gnocchi and vegetables on their plates as they felt like taking. They talked as they ate, talking over and under and around each other, punctuating their songs with requests of _pass this_ and _pass that_ which Danny was beginning to get his head around.

Rosa and Adalina chatted freely in Italian. Matteo offered grunts or short comments when he wasn't busy chewing the rather doughy gnocchi. Rosa managed to coax a few quiet answers out of Paolo, but the boy's gaze seemed permanently fixed on his plate. And, for the most part, Danny tried to sit there and eat his food as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. _Just another part of the furniture_. And if he was quiet enough, they might forget he was even there. Nobody might suggest solving their American problem by handing him over to the Nazis.

His good luck didn't hold out forever. Fifteen minutes into the meal, at which point it had ceased to be a free-for-all frenzy and had settled into a more sedate, leisurely culinary stroll, the conversation turned to him. He didn't understand what was being said, but he could tell the conversation was about him because of Matteo's occasional gestures, and the slowly rising volume of Rosa's voice. Adalina fell silent and became as focused on her plate on Paolo. It was almost like being back home, except his mom never argued back to his dad.

The thoughts of home, along with the heat in the voices arguing across the table, made him feel itchy underneath his skin. His stomach writhed unpleasantly, until finally he could take it no more. He put down his fork, and that small act drew four pairs of eyes to his face.

"Please don't argue over me," he said. "I don't want to cause you any trouble. After dinner, I'll leave. Try and make my way back to my camp."

"You are not well enough to leave," Rosa scowled. "A German patrol would pick you up before you reach the next town."

"That's better than causing problems for you," he assured her. "You've already done so much for me. I'm not gonna be that guy who overstays his welcome."

More arguing ensued. This time, Adalina chimed in, her voice as annoyed as her mother's as she gesticulated and yelled at her father. Paolo looked just about ready to burst into tears.

"Io non lo voglio in casa mia!" Matteo roared, slamming his fork down onto the table with enough force to make the whole thing shake. A little water slopped over a couple of the glasses.

Rosa was not to be out-done. She slammed her glass down so hard that half of its contents flew up into the air. "Bene! La casa è tua. Ma il fienile è mio, e ho scelto che dorme in esso."

Matteo stood, his chair legs scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. Danny managed to stop himself from flinching, but couldn't help but see in his mind's eye the huge fist reach out to grab him and toss him bodily out of the house. "Ho intenzione di lavarsi prima di dormire." He walked around the table, and out of the front door, slamming it closed behind him. Everybody else at the table carried on eating as if this was an everyday occurrence.

"Um, what was that?" Danny asked at last. What little appetite he'd possessed was now gone.

Rosa gave him a smile. "My husband does not want you in his house. I told him he can allow whomever he wants in his house, but the barn is _mine_."

"Oh. Okay." Sleeping in a barn. It ought to be warm enough, at least for the moment. Certainly warmer than a trench, which was where he'd probably be right now if he was back at camp. "I don't mind sharing with the goats."

"You won't be sleeping in the barn, Danny," she scoffed. "If Matteo can't have you gone entirely, he wants you where he can keep an eye on you. Who knows what you might get up to in the barn? But in here, under his nose? He can watch you like a hawk."

"I see." The barn was actually sounding like the better option. At least if Matteo crept into the barn with hostile intentions, the goats might warn him. Didn't they say that animals could sense danger?

She gave him a small pat on the arm. It didn't feel particularly comforting.

"It will be fine. You'll see."


	65. A Thousand Years of Hell

We Were Soldiers

 _65\. A Thousand Years of Hell_

Bucky's eyes crept open, slowly, reluctantly. Light danced above him, flashes of blinding white in the darkness. Took him a moment to realise the flashes were from a malfunctioning light, its bulb flickering as it tried to draw enough power to stay alive.

He knew how it felt.

Everything hurt. His fever had subsided; now he was cold. So cold. His body tried to curl reflexively into a ball of warmth—the restraints around his wrists and ankles stopped him.

He heard a sound. Turned his aching head, squinted through gritty eyes. The man in the white lab coat was there, filling hypodermic syringes with something from a bottle. When he saw the amber liquid, Bucky flinched.

For days—he'd lost count of how many—the doctor had been injecting him with the liquid. _Small doses, to allow the subject_ _'s body to adapt to the larger amounts eventually required_. He only knew that from listening to the man's mumbles as he jotted notes in his journal of pain. The man never spoke to Bucky directly; at least, never as a person. Always a subject. Subject 36. _You will feel a slight pinch_. The words could have come from a family physician—this man made them a mockery. Said nothing about the intense, bond-bending, muscle-wrenching burning which followed the pinch.

 _Small doses._

The man approached, pulling the cap from the needle, reaching out a hand to tap against the vein in Bucky's arm.

"You will feel a slight pinch," he said.

Bucky closed his eyes, and prepared for the fires of Hell.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

It was a new day. He could tell because it was light outside. Couldn't tell how many nights he'd slept through, though. Sometime after being injected, at some point when he thought he was going to die from the pain, he'd lost consciousness.

"The subject will undoubtedly be feeling better, much improved on how he was when he was first brought here," the man mumbled as, somewhere out of sight, he scribbled notes in his journals.

Bucky held his breath. Did a mental check of his body. The doctor was right. He did feel better. He could breathe easily. He didn't feel so cold anymore. Wasn't quite as exhausted.

"The latest changes to the compound seem to have triggered an intense immune response in the subject," the man continued. His mumbling was so quiet that Bucky had to strain to hear it. "Pneumonia is almost entirely gone. An interesting side-effect. However, I hadn't anticipated the subject's immune system recovering so quickly. This may make phase two more difficult. If I had my way, I would continue to slowly increase the dosage until reaching the required level of saturation. I doubt Herr Schmidt will be so patient."

"What are you doing to me?" Bucky asked. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. He'd heard of German doctors experimenting on prisoners to create new biological weapons to unleash on their enemies. It made his stomach churn angrily, to think that what was being done to him now might one day be used on his friends. Maybe even on civilian populations.

The angry churn quickly turned to a hungry growl. His question went unnoticed by the doctor; the growl didn't.

"Ahh, how terribly remiss of me!" the little man said. He appeared in Bucky's view, a pudgy face peering down at him through bug-like eyes. "I will have the guards fetch you food, and you will eat. You must keep up your strength!"

Bucky clamped his lips closed, focused his gaze on the dirty stone ceiling above. If he didn't eat, he would die. Then this doctor and his twisted master wouldn't be able to use him in the creation of whatever new weapons they were concocting.

"It does not matter," the doctor said, as if reading his thoughts. A humourless smile pulled up one corner of his lips. "We have ways of making our subjects comply."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

A spoonful of cold broth was held up. Bucky opened his mouth and clamped his lips down on the spoon when it was fed to him by one of the helmeted guards. He resisted the urge to spit it right back in the man's face. Failure to comply resulted in punishment too great for him to bear.

The metal of the table was cold against his back, but it was good to be vertical for a change. The first time the guards had lifted the table upright, he'd cried out in shock, afraid they were going to overturn him completely. But his restraints were tightened, and one added around his forehead, to keep his neck and head still. In this position, he could be fed. In this position, he had a view of the room, and the prisoner they'd brought in as an incentive.

The first time Bucky had refused to eat, the doctor had the guards beat him. But he didn't care; pain was a useful tool for dulling hunger. And the doctor wised up to that pretty quick. The next time Bucky refused, they brought in one of the older, grubbier prisoners. Sat the man down opposite Bucky. Broke each finger on his right hand one by one, until Bucky could bear the snaps of bone and screams of pain no longer, and swore he would eat whatever they gave him.

Sometimes he thought of disobeying again, but he feared what they might do next. What if they broke more than fingers? What if they broke arms, or legs? What if they resorted to execution, just to get their subject to swallow a little cold stew and chew a morsel of stale bread? What if next time, they hurt Gabe, or Dugan?

He could live with his own pain, but not with the suffering of others. So he ate. He chewed. He swallowed. And in his head, he dreamt up ways to pay the doctor back for every needle, every bruise, and every broken finger.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

It wasn't a bathroom. It was a metal bucket in the corner of the grim laboratory. Bucky stood over it, conscious of the guards hovering behind him, hands on their weapons. They were alert; _too_ alert. Expected him to try something. Looked at him and saw defiance in his eyes.

He would wait. At some point, they would consider him beaten. Let their guard down. At some point, the two armed guards would become one. Maybe that one wouldn't hover so close. Maybe he wouldn't stand with his hand ready on his weapon. Maybe, in a few more days, he could take the chance.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Subject 36," the doctor said. Bucky couldn't see him; he was over at his workbench. But he heard the scrape of metal on glass as the man mounted the microscope slide. He'd gotten very good at discerning what his tormentor was doing, just by the sounds that he made.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Rank—"

"Ah-ah!" the doctor warned, with a vexed hiss. "I didn't ask for your party-piece. I am detecting trace elements of an unusual compound in your blood. Have you received any medical treatment recently which might account for this?"

"—Sergeant. Service number—"

The doctor's sigh interrupted his recital.

"I am not asking you to give up your country's secrets, Subject 36." The scrape of the chair legs on bare stone were like chalkboard-fingernails down his spine. The doctor's face hovered above him. "I don't care for troop placements or attack plans. All I would like is a little medical history. Is that too much to ask for?"

Bucky fixed him with the best defiant glare he could muster.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Rank: Sergeant. Service number—"

"Well, no matter. The compound in your blood does not seem to be interfering with the experiment. I was simply curious."

The face disappeared, and Bucky felt the thrill of victory shiver through him.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. My name is Bucky._

He thought the information to the unseen ceiling overhead. It was late; the doctor was gone, and apart from the play of moonlight through the tiny, dirt-clad windows, the room was in darkness. Two guards stood watch on their side of the door, but Bucky was completely and utterly alone, the silence punctuated only by the drip of the sink's leaky faucet.

In his lucid moments, he repeated his mantra over and over to himself. Told himself who he was. What his rank was. His service number. He brought forth the names of his family, called up their faces in his mind. Said their names in silence so he wouldn't forget. Subject 36 had no friends and family; he was a lab rat. But Bucky Barnes was loved. They might call him Subject 36, but they couldn't make him _be_ that non-person.

 _Mom. Dad. Mary-Ann. Charlie. Janet. Grandma Barnes. Steve._

The names were his lifeline to himself. In the long hours when he was alone, he let his family and friends live inside him. It helped to keep the loneliness at bay. Helped to keep him sane. Gave him strength to endure another day of agonising experimentation or torturous loneliness.

It wasn't much, but it was the only way he had of fighting back. A way of resisting. Of saying, _no, I won_ _'t be what you want me to be._

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

His ears were full of his own screams as a fire burned beneath his skin and his writhing body threatened to snap bones. The ache was hot, stabbing, causing his limbs to contort in spasm. The fire of pain raged through his head, dulling his senses so that he didn't see or hear the laboratory anymore. Instead, a prison of agony shrouded him.

When he came to, hours had passed. It was dark outside. Panting, shivering, burning, he felt the slick of sweat across his skin as his limbs were wrangled back into place, his restraints fastened more tightly. Dimly, he recalled the doctor ordering the guards to loosen them; the man was afraid Bucky's bones would break if his body wasn't allowed to writhe and twist to the pulse of the pain.

"Congratulations, Subject 36," the doctor said, his face smiling down at Bucky as if looking upon a favoured child. "You are the first subject to survive stage two. I cannot wait to see what new revelations stage three brings!"

Bucky was too busy gasping air into aching lungs to respond, but when he saw the smile on the doctor's face, he shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold of the laboratory.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Pain was a constant companion during stage three. A deep, pervasive ache. Familiar. Like the time he'd had growing pains as a kid. Bones become denser. Tendons and ligaments stretching. Muscles cramping. Only, it wasn't just in his legs; it was everywhere. In his toes, his hands, his arms, along his spine, even inside his head. There wasn't an inch of him that didn't hurt inside and out.

Delirious with pain, he rolled his head to the side, saw light play across the clear bag of amber liquid hanging from the frame above him. Some tiny part of his mind that was still cognisant knew that whatever the liquid was, it was killing him. Slowly, surely, dripping poison into his veins. Lashed down, unable to lift an arm, he could only lie there and accept the poison.

Tears burned his eyes. What had he done to deserve this? Why was he being punished? Why couldn't they get it over with quickly? Why didn't they just let him die?

Figures from his past tried to comfort him.

" _At least for us it was quick,_ " said Lt. Danzig, stepping forward from the crowd of murky, shadowy forms that hovered in the corner of his vision. _"Stay strong. Don't let them see you cry."_

" _Hang in there, Sarge,"_ Tipper squeaked, reaching out to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder with his skinny hand. _"They can't keep this up much longer, right?"_

" _I hope somebody's been feeding the chickens,"_ Davies scowled, his face floating above the cold metal table.

" _It's not so bad, being dead,"_ Wells assured him with a small smile. _"No hunger. No pain. Just peace. I think you'll like it. And hey, we can finally have that awkward conversation you've been looking forward to!"_

" _I found Drew,"_ Hawkins told him. _"He was waiting for me, along with Grandpa and Molly—she was my dog when I was a kid. Didn't expect that, but here she is. Didn't you say you had a dog when you were a kid, Sarge?"_

" _You know what I say,"_ Steve grinned. _"Each time you get knocked down is just an opportunity to see how fast you can get back up again."_

Bucky nodded, blinking away the tears. His friends were right. He had to stay strong. Had to show that them no matter how much they bent him, he wouldn't be broken. And if they killed him… well, death was nothing to fear. People he loved would be waiting for him, just like Father Rice always said.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Painfully sore eyes opened to darkness. There was no light. It hurt too much. Even the soft glow of the oil lamp had caused hot lightning to sear across his vision, stabbing their electric fingers into his head. Eventually, his screams had grated on the doctor's nerves so much that the man had taken the lamp and gone to write his notes elsewhere.

The soft caress of whispers tickled his mind. A voice, familiar, nasally, seemed to be pleading.

"… _if only we had a vita-ray generator, the work could go much faster!"_

Bucky turned his head. Squinted at the light spilling in through the crack of the laboratory door. Two figures outlined there, their shadows dark as their cruel hearts. The short figure; the doctor, cringed before the taller shadow-man.

" _There is not enough power out here to fuel a vita-ray generator, even if we had one."_

" _Perhaps we could adapt the Tes—"_

" _No!"_ Bucky flinched at the harsh rejection; the doctor's shadow flinched, too, like a dog expecting to be beaten. _"We cannot afford to take it offline. Its energy is being used to power production of the Valkyrie, as well as the weapons our troops are using. Now, with our enemies making our way through Italy, we must contend with multiple fronts. The Führer may no longer be our greatest concern."_ The shadow's head moved, and Bucky knew instinctively that the taller man was looking through to door, to their 'Subject.' _"Continue the experiment, Doctor Zola. Perhaps this one will be the key we have been searching for."_

Zola?

So. That was the name of the monster responsible for all of Bucky's pain. He stored the knowledge away. It was good to know the name of the man whose head Bucky would one day put a bullet through.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

He fell into dreams intermingled with memories, unable to quite separate the two.

Meeting Steve for the first time. They'd been eight—or was it nine? The details were blurry. That was how Bucky felt. _Blurry_. As if his thoughts and his body had become fuzzy around the edges, smudged and smeared by pain, so that he wasn't quite the same Bucky he'd been a month ago. _The Alamo. Remember the Alamo._ They'd fought the Alamo in Bucky's back yard, from a cardboard box fort. _Nine_. Yes, he was sure they'd been nine when they met.

Mom bringing Janet home from the hospital. She'd been so small, so vulnerable… she was still small, but growing fast. By now she was probably bringing boys home, as Mary-Ann had when she was sixteen. Carrying a torch for Steve hadn't stopped her from going dancing with other guys while she waited for Bucky's best friend to grow up and make a move. He just hoped there were no guys making a move on Janet; not until Bucky had had chance to put a little fear and respect into them.

 _Fifteen_. His first kiss. Meredith Fisher. He hadn't known what he was doing, but she didn't seem to mind. _Practice makes perfect_ , or so they said. Meredith hadn't lasted more than a few months. She didn't like that he spent so much time hanging around with Steve and his friends. Wanted him to spend more time with her. But Steve and the others, they'd been a big part of Bucky's life for much longer than Meredith had. If he was gonna have a girlfriend, he needed her to understand that friendship was important to him. That she could be a part of his life, but not the whole of it.

Sitting in the sterile waiting room of the TB ward where Sarah Rogers had once worked. Waiting for Steve to say goodbye. Not know what to do, how to react, when Steve finally stepped through the door, his face ashen and his eyes red from crying. Enveloping his friend in a hug when Steve fixed his gaze on the bleached-white tiles. _"At least she's not suffering anymore."_

He was dying in this _stalag_. He knew it. This was his life flashing before his eyes. Only, he was dying slowly, so the moments of his life came slowly, too. His mind brought back everything it felt he needed to see, and he lived a thousand lifetimes on that cold steel table.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Please let me die!" he begged as whatever was in Zola's injections poured through his veins like molten iron, igniting wildfires of heat and pain within his muscles and beneath his skin. "Please!"

His pleas fell on deaf ears. Zola had brought in a gramophone, and played loud opera so that he couldn't hear Bucky's cries. Slowly he was tortured to the shrill of a mezzo-soprano wailing in German.

He couldn't take much more, and he didn't care how weak begging made him seem. For days or weeks or years he'd lived in constant agony with no relief. They'd stopped feeding him, because every time they forced food into him, he just vomited it up. He couldn't see himself, but he imagined he looked like a corpse. He _felt_ like a corpse. Had his hair fallen out? Had his fingernails dropped off? Were his teeth rotting in his mouth? It felt like it. It felt like everything was being stripped away, piece by piece, exposing his insides to the harsh climate of the outside world.

Zola did not respond. After a while, he left the room, leaving Bucky to die in the company of the wailing voice.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

He wobbled on his feet. Below him, on the stone floor, the bucket seemed to swim, like he was watching it through a puddle of water swirling round and around. His mind was equally foggy, shrouded in darkness and misery. How long had it been since he'd stood over this bucket contemplating escape? How long since he'd last had hope?

There was no escape. He realised that, now. Even if by some miracle he was able to get away from this place, it would never truly leave him. They'd injected so much into him that he wasn't himself anymore. He was some weak, begging, dying thing; in fact, he was already dead. His body just hadn't caught up yet.

He zipped up his pants and turned, almost falling over in the process. The single guard reached out, hand clasping Bucky's arm to stop him falling backwards into the foul-smelling bucket. As the helmeted guard righted him, his eyes fell on the pistol at his hip.

 _No escape._

He was already dead.

 _Rumour has it they make chemical and biological weapons in the back room._

If he let this continue, they'd take this weapon and use it on others.

 _My name is James Buchanan Barnes._

Some tiny sliver of strength returned to him. It didn't matter if he died; he was already dead. All that mattered was stopping these monsters from continuing their work on him. Putting an end to the pain. He couldn't face another day of this. It was too much.

He acted on impulse, leaning forward, reaching out, grabbing the pistol in its holster. At the same time, he dropped his shoulder and launched forward, catching the guard in his stomach and knocking him to the ground.

"Stop him!" he heard Zola cry.

Bucky fumbled for the safety. Felt tears of frustration burn his eyes when it didn't immediately disengage. Tried again and found success. Lifted the pistol, jammed the cold metal of the muzzle against his temple, and—

—was tackled from the side as his finger yanked the trigger. The gun flew from his hand. Bucky was thrown to the floor. The bullet whistled through air before knocking a chip out of the wall. The second guard, his weight pressed above Bucky to keep him immobile on the ground, kicked the gun away and wrestled his prisoner back onto the metal table. Bucky flailed and lashed out with what was left of his strength, throwing punches and kicks which fell off the guard like water flowing down a duck's back. After a moment of recovery, the first guard moved to help. His gloved hands were harsh as they forced Bucky's arm back to the table and lashed it down with one of the restraints.

His tears flowed freely, blurring and burning. _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ he told himself. _Too slow._ He'd been too slow. For one brief, heart-stopping moment, he'd glimpsed freedom. But freedom had been cruelly snatched away, and now there was nothing in sight but tomorrow's pain.

Zola's face appeared, scowling down at him. "It seems I underestimated you, Subject 36. I will not do so again." His gaze danced up to the guards hovering nearby. "This must not be allowed to happen again. From now on he stays on the bed. Permanently. If he escapes, or manages to take his life before I am done with this experiment, I will see to it that Herr Schmidt knows where to place the blame."

Bucky couldn't see the guards' faces; his eyes were blurred with tears of anger, and they still wore helmets and goggles which made them look identical. But the threat scared them. He could tell, somehow. They were terrified of Schmidt.

Zola's face disappeared. The gramophone was switched on, and Bucky's tears burnt hotter. He knew what the music meant. The opera singer was a wailing banshee, and her song heralded pain.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes," he whispered to the darkness. Life in the backroom was an unending series of nights, each one somehow darker than the last. _There is no hope,_ the memory of Dernier's voice told him. And he finally believed it.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes," he repeated, eyes fixed unseeing on the ceiling above. "Can you hear me? My name is James Buchanan Barnes!"

In the silence that followed, he thought he could hear the clanging and ringing of work continuing on the factory floor. Maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe it was easier to pretend to hear the sounds, than it was to dwell in his lonely silence.

"I know you know who I am," he continued. "I know, because I was baptised, and that means you have to know me. Why won't you answer? Why are you doing this? Why are you letting it happen? Is this punishment? Do you hate me that much? First you took all my friends, and now you're torturing me. Why? What purpose does it serve?"

He heard one of the guards shift slightly where he stood by the door. It made them uncomfortable when he talked aloud. They thought he was crazy. Maybe he finally was.

"MY NAME IS JAMES. BUCHANAN. BARNES!" he yelled at the ceiling, his voice a dry, painful croak as it screamed out of his throat.

There was no response. Wells had been right. _He_ wasn't listening anymore. He'd never been listening at all.

* * *

 _Author's note: Thought I'd provide a quick update, as I haven't done one in a while. By the end of today, I'll have finished chapter 86 and moved on to chapter 87. Things are moving slowly, but that's actually a good thing. I'd initially been worried that after the fun and antics of the 107th, I'd have nothing to write about with the Commandos, and that I'd struggle to make them as interesting. But I'm actually enjoying exploring the early days of their team and developing their backgrounds and such, and I have a lot of ideas in the works for their missions. Thanks to everyone for your questions, comments and feedback!_


	66. A Close Call

We Were Soldiers

 _66\. A Close Call_

Steve couldn't help but see shapes in the clouds as the plane cut its way through the azure sky. On his lap, the latest page of his sketch book was blank, the pencil untouched. Normally, he broke the ennui of travel by sketching anything and everything that came to mind, but this was only his second time flying, and the novelty had not yet worn off.

When he'd been a kid, before meeting Bucky, he'd often sit by his bedroom window watching the groups of children at play on the streets outside. Sometimes, when there were no kids to watch, he'd watch the clouds instead—he liked to pretend they were putting on a show just for him. Now, he felt like his eight year old self again. He was lonelier than he'd been in a long time. Had foolishly believed that when he made it to Europe, everything would finally be right.

He should'a known life was rarely so easy.

Footsteps caught his attention, and he glanced back to the plane's interior. Kevin was making his way back from the cockpit, and he offered an update as he strapped himself into the seat opposite Steve.

"Pilot says we'll only be another hour or so," he shouted over the droning sound of the twin engine. "When we touch down, we'll have a short drive to the camp, and you'll have plenty of time to freshen up before your first show."

Steve nodded. All he knew of the place they were landing was that it was some sort of impromptu airstrip made to allow damaged bombers a place to make emergency landings if their pilots thought they couldn't make it back to Palermo. Kevin said a few Army companies had set up camp on the periphery of the airstrip, and it was they who the USO would be entertaining this afternoon. Maybe he'd finally find Bucky there.

"I just hope it's warmer in the camp than it is up here!" Betty yelled. Her arms were hugged around her chest, to emphasis just how cold she felt. In fact, all of the girls looked pale and pinch-faced. Even Kevin was wearing a fur-trimmed jacket. Steve, in his regular olive drab, thought the temperature was quite pleasant after Palermo's heat. But then, not everybody had his enhanced metabolism. He was just glad Kevin had made Freddie stay behind; the kid would be travelling to London by boat, where he'd meet them for the final leg of the show's tour.

"I think there are some blankets in the overhead compartment," Steve said. He unbuckled himself and stood up, reaching for the small cabin door above his head.

At that moment, the world spun upside down. The engines wailed as something outside went _BANG BANG BANG_. Everything that wasn't lashed down went flying down the length of the plane—Steve included. He was thrown against the cockpit door to the sound of the girls screaming loudly. His ribs took the blow of the impact; they creaked in complaint, squeezing his lungs so hard that he struggled to draw breath. Winded, he managed to push himself upright just the plane rolled the _other_ way, to the sound of more explosions.

He felt gravity let go of him, and for one brief moment he was back on the cyclone at Coney Island, unable to figure out which way was up and which was down, stomach heaving unpleasantly. Then the plane levelled out, the screaming stopped, and he hit the deck face-first. He lay there dazed and bruised, until the cockpit door open and a pilot—still wearing his headphones—asked, "Everyone alright back here?"

"What the Hell was that?" Steve demanded, pushing himself to his feet. He offered a silent apology for his bad language.

"Flak," the pilot said. And, for the sake of the civilians present, "Somebody was shooting at us."

"Somebody?!"

"Probably the Krauts."

" _Probably_ the Krauts?"

The pilot shrugged. "To the guys on the ground, all planes look the same. Sometimes flight plans get overlooked. Don't worry, we didn't take any direct hits, though we do recommend that, for your own safety, you remain buckled in for the rest of the ride. ETA's a little over forty minutes."

As the pilot disappeared back into the cockpit, the war suddenly became real in a way it hadn't before. It wasn't a HYDRA spy shooting at him in New York. It wasn't a group of soldiers celebrating because they'd taken Sicily. It was somebody on the ground firing AA rounds at a plane full of civilians, doing their very best to knock Steve Rogers and the USO out of the sky.

"Steve, are you okay?" Betty asked, concern etched all over her face.

"Yeah. Believe it or not, I've been knocked around worse than this." Nazi guns had nothing on New York's bullies.

He quickly grabbed the blankets from the cabin and handed them out to the girls. Kevin eyed one longingly when offered, but finally declined. Steve buckled himself back in and fastened the restraints so tight that they damn near stopped him from breathing. _Fool me once_ _…_

Fate threw one final piece of unpleasantness their way. Just a few minutes after the whole _flak_ incident, the bearer of bad news poked his head into the back of the plane in the form of the co-pilot.

"Sky's looking a little rough up ahead," the man said. "Seems it's raining at the landing site."

"Is that a problem?" Kevin asked. His face still hadn't resumed its normal colour after their near-flak experience.

"Well, it's harder to stop on wet ground. Wouldn't be too much of a problem if we were landing on tarmac or concrete, but we're landing in a field, on a strip that's probably already been churned to mud by planes landing and taking off. And the strip here terminates in a narrow belt of trees which screen a near-vertical drop. So, it could get a little hairy."

 _A little hairy?_ The girls were already sobbing again, and Kevin was gripping his restraints so tight that his knuckles had turned white—as if _that_ might somehow help the plane to stop.

"I don't care how long it takes to get back to America by boat," Steve told him, as he began to regret the generous breakfast, and seconds, he'd eaten before leaving Palermo. "After today, I'm never getting in a plane again."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"The doctor will be back in three days, and he will take your bandages off," said Rosa. "Until then, you must stop trying to peek beneath them. It will do your injury no good to be uncovered."

"But it _itches_ ," Danny complained, as he attempted one-handed mushroom chopping. It also ached, and burned. Rosa had rigged up a sling for him, so that his arm didn't move too much, but that didn't stop it from hurting.

"You will just have to tolerate the itching until the doctor can take a look. If your wound is still infected it may worsen if we take the bandage off."

He sighed. Sometimes, he felt like Rosa's third kid. Grateful as he was for her care, he wished she wasn't always so damn… well… mothering. It was something new, and uncomfortable. The Italian woman seemed to care in a way that his own mother never had. The woman who's given birth to him functioned more as a servant than a mom. She cooked, she cleaned, she did laundry. Growing up, he'd been vaguely aware that something was missing. It might have involved bedtime stories, and freshly baked cookies, and reassuring hugs when he scraped his knees. As a child, he would've loved having Rosa as a mother. Now, he was constantly frustrated by her need to treat him like her offspring.

"Do you think—"

The kitchen door flew open. Paolo raced in, his face pale, brown eyes wide, dark hair wind-swept. Behind him, the grey sky threatened… something. Snow was coming. Rosa said she could smell it in the air. At lower elevations it fell as rain, but up here, on high ground, it would be snow. Not exactly what Danny was hoping for right now. When the snow began, it wouldn't stop until spring, and he wouldn't be able to get back to camp to right all the wrongs that had happened in his absence.

"Mama, i tedeschi stanno arrivando qui! Li ho visti dal paese, sulla strada principale della casa! Saranno qui da un momento all'altro!" Paolo said, gasping for breath. It was the most Danny had heard him say so far.

Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. Rose dropped her knife, ran upstairs, and came down mere seconds later carrying the bag Danny was keeping his army uniform in. Apart from his boots, everything he wore had been scrounged up by Rosa, to replace the too-big clothes of her husband.

She thrust the bag into Paolo's arms before Danny could open his mouth, and said, "Portatelo in fretta. Andare! Portatelo alla capanna del collier. Sarete al sicuro."

The boy shouldered the bag, grabbed Danny's left hand, and tugged him toward the door.

"Rosa, what's going on?"

"Germans." There was tension in her voice, and in her eyes. She tried to hide it, but not well enough. For the first time in over two weeks, Danny felt true panic. "They are coming here. Now. Go with Paolo," she said, before he could ask any further questions. "I will send for you when it's safe."

He wanted to object. To tell her that he couldn't just leave her alone if Nazis were on their way. He still had two fully-loaded pistols in his bag; he could stay. They could fight. Sure, he'd never shot a gun left-handed before, but it was better than leaving her to the mercy of the Krauts.

He didn't get time to voice his objections; Paolo, in a surprising show of strength, pulled him through the open door, and Rosa slammed it closed. He was left with no choice; he followed after the boy, and hoped that Rosa knew what she was doing.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

When the airplane door opened, and the rough steel steps were lowered, Steve stepped out on legs which were unashamedly shaky. The chill breeze tugged at his hair and sent rain battering against the side of his face. When he squinted at the nose of the plane, he saw that it was pointing at a right angle to the muddy landing strip behind them. He _thought_ he'd felt the plane slide out of control as it touched down. He was just glad the pilots had been able to stop it before that narrow belt of trees; they were tall, thin things that didn't look like they were strong enough to stop a plane going over the edge.

A mud-spattered jeep—thankfully a covered one, and not one of those open-air affairs—skidded to a halt at the bottom of the ramp, and a uniformed soldier jumped out. For one split second, Steve's heart stopped and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of the man. But when the soldier tilted back his hat to look up at the cabin door, Steve saw that it wasn't Bucky. _Idiot,_ he told himself. _Why would it be Bucky, of all people, who_ _'d be driving us to camp? It's not like he knows I'm coming._

"You the USO folks?" the soldier called.

"Yeah, that's us," Steve called back.

"Well, hop on in. We got folks waiting for you back at camp."

Steve stayed at the top of the steps and offered his hand to the girls as they departed one by one. "Watch your step, the stairs are a little slippy," he told them. Unlike his sensible boots, they wore shoes with a small heel. Not exactly great for wet fields. The soldier must've seen that, too, because when they reached the bottom of the steps, he offered his hand to help them keep their balance as they took a stride through the mud to reach the jeep. The dancers giggled their thanks, and the soldier flashed each of them a winning smile. Steve tried not to roll his eyes. The man might not be Bucky, but he was sure making a good attempt at behaving exactly like Steve's best friend around dames.

Finally there was only Kevin left, and Steve let him climb aboard the front passenger position of the vehicle before squeezing himself onto the back seat.

"What about our gear?" Kevin asked.

The soldier slid back into the driver's seat and pointed at a second jeep that was slipping and sliding its way across what could only loosely be called an airstrip.

"Don't worry, our guys will make sure your stuff gets to camp." The man peered over his shoulder, eyes scanning the faces of the dancers. "This all of you?"

"Yeah," said Steve. "Why? Were you expecting something else?"

The question was met with a dissatisfied grunt. "Was kinda hoping for Rita Hayworth. Heard she toured Palermo last month."

"She's back home, now," Kevin said. "You'll just have to settle for Captain America."

"Huh. And which one of you lovely ladies is Captain America?"

"That would be me," Steve told him.

"Oh. Sorry. Thought you were the teamster or something." The engine chugged to life at the turn of a key, and the soldier slipped the vehicle into first gear before powering off across the churned-up field. Steve managed to combine holding on to the vehicle's inside hand-hold, with using his free arm to keep Kathy and Betty from sliding all over the seat beside him. The soldier seemed to have little regard for the state of the field as the vehicle slipped and slid across it; he was obviously crazy.

The patter of rain became more audible as the jeep left the field and came to some sort of rough-hewn road. Steve and the girls were bounced around in the back, and he swiftly began to re-evaluate that whole _never flying again_ sentiment. At least the plane was _mostly_ smooth, give or take an occasional barrel-roll.

"How far's the camp?" Steve asked, after a few minutes of being rudely jostled. He'd already given up trying to keep the girls in place; he simply uprighted them with they were bounced into him.

"Couple of miles," the soldier said, shouting over his shoulder without taking his gaze from the rocky path. "Can't camp too close to the airfields, y'know?"

"Because of all the mud?"

"Because those fly-boys can't aim for shit. They're always missing their drop zones for re-supplies, and I hear they hit more civilian targets than they do military. Picture them trying to land in fog, or high wind. They'd kill us all. And they'd probably get away with it, too. Can you imagine the fallout if us infantry started wiping civilian villages off the map? We'd be looking at two to ten on top of a dishonourable. But stick some guy in a flight suit and pin a pair of wings to his collar? It's like he's God's damn gift to the world, pardon my French, ladies. It ain't right, I tell ya."

 _Maybe they miss their targets because they_ _'re too busy dodging the flak from you guys accidentally shooting at them,_ Steve thought, but didn't say. Bucky had always told him that his mouth got him into trouble; he was trying to learn from past mistakes. He couldn't afford to let his mouth get him into trouble now, because he might accidentally hurt somebody.

When they finally pulled up at the camp, Steve's heart sank. In fact, it floundered. The area on which multiple tents were erected, on which sat three tanks and, under a tarp, another small airplane, was no less muddy than the airstrip. It seemed even muddier, if such a thing was possible—a veritable quagmire into which it appeared everything was slowly sucked down.

"Stage is over there," their driver said, gesturing at the stage that had been set up on the edge of the camp. "We put a couple of tents up around the back. Separate one for the ladies, of course."

"Thanks, we'll head there right away to prep for the afternoon show," Kevin said. His eyes fell down to the muddy ground outside the jeep. "Err, I don't suppose you have any spare galoshes lying around..?"

"'Fraid not."

Kevin did not look pleased. His shiny black leather shoes were brand new, acquired in Palermo at an inflated cost. _A treat for myself,_ he'd called them, never suspecting he'd have to wade through a swamp of mud. Steve felt pity stir within his breast.

"Is there any chance of you dropping us off at the stage?" he asked the driver.

"Sorry, but I gotta get this car back to the motor pool."

Help came from an unexpected source.

"Oh, but we really would be ever so grateful if you could drive us just a tiny little bit further," said Betty, leaning forward to bat her eyelashes coyly at the driver.

"Why, that's right," Kathy added. "We really would appreciate it, Sergeant—?"

The man cleared his throat. "Corporal. Corporal Lance. And it would be my pleasure to drive you to the stage, ma'am."

In the back of the jeep, the other two dancers smiled at Lance too, and Steve once again felt a moment of awe. The dames on the tour sure did know how to get their way with things. _Agent Carter would_ _'ve just ordered him to drive her there,_ a tiny voice in his head pointed out.

 _Yes, but Agent Carter isn_ _'t here, so be quiet,_ he told the voice.

"Who's the CO here?" Steve asked.

"Depends," Corporal Lance replied. "At last count, we had four—no wait, five, now—colonels, each in charge of their own little area of the camp. But if you're looking for authority, you should probably look for Colonel Hawkswell. He's in charge of camp operations, and generally co-ordinates all missions."

"Thanks." After the USO show, he'd find Hawkswell and ask if he could take a look at the list of camp personnel. If Bucky was here, Steve wasn't gonna waste time trawling through the muddy masses looking for him; he'd go straight to the brass.

When they reached the stage, the girls thanked Lance again while Kevin hopped out of the jeep and straight into one of the tents. Steve suspected he'd be trading something for real boots as soon as his bag arrived from the plane. Poor Kevin wasn't cut out for literal fieldwork. He was a true urbanite.

Enhanced senses were sometimes a blessing, and sometimes a curse. Right now, he counted them a blessing, but he didn't like what they were picking up: the stares of soldiers near the stage as they watched the girls climb out of the jeep; the casual interest in some eyes, and intense hunger in others. Quiet mumbles of, _"Finally, a bit of skirt to chase,"_ and, _"I wonder if they charge."_ The leers and whistles of men who'd been gone from civilisation so long that they were starting to forget what it was to _be_ civilised.

He positioned himself outside the entrance to the girls' tent and issued a few glares until the loitering soldiers got the message and moved on. He would, if necessary, knock some civilisation back into anybody who thought they could take advantage of Captain America's dancers. He'd remind the men that the girls weren't just some 'skirt' to be chased; they were sisters, daughters, granddaughters and nieces. Just because they were in the middle of a war zone didn't mean dames were any less deserving of being treated with respect.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Danny's lungs burned as he jogged after Paolo. Once fit enough to run for miles, he now struggled to keep up with the boy who ran through the forest as if the devil's hounds were chasing him. "Fretta!" Paolo kept calling over his shoulder. "Fretta!"

 _Fretta yourself,_ Danny grumbled inside his head.

Running was hard with one arm bound to his body. He couldn't keep a natural rhythm. Each time he stepped on some hidden stone or stick, he wobbled and had to slow to keep his balance. To make matters worse, less than ten minutes into their flight, snow began to fall. The first few white flakes were charming. When they began to fly into Danny's eyes, blinding him, they became more and more of an annoyance.

"Paolo, wait!" he called, stopping at the request of his dying lungs. "Aspetta!"

The boy stopped at the command, turning and hopping on the spot as he waited for Danny to catch up in a walk. Infectious as his impatience was, Danny knew he couldn't keep up such a fast pace. He'd been too sick for too long. His legs already felt close to collapse.

"Where are we going?" he asked. "Dove andare?"

"Per un posto sicuro. Dovrebbe ... che dovrebbe essere occupato ora."

Danny shook his head. Rosa had been teaching him Italian, and at the same time, teaching her kids English. At some point they'd be able to meet in the middle, but whilst Adalina was picking up English very quickly, Paolo just didn't have the same flair. _His head was made for numbers,_ Rosa said.

After too short a rest period, Paolo began jogging again. Danny increased his pace as the falling snow did its best to obscure all obstacles on the ground. It didn't take long for his boot to find the surface of a rock made slippery with snow; he tumbled to the ground, letting out a pained cry as he rolled over his damaged shoulder.

Paolo dashed back and helped him back up, his dark hair peppered with white flakes. "Mi dispiace, non avrei dovuto fatto che si esegue così in fretta."

"I swear," Danny grumbled as he rearranged the sling holding his injured arm still, "if you just told me to be more careful, I'm not gonna be happy."

The boy merely gestured for him to follow, and this time, he went no faster than a rapid walk. At fifteen, Paolo was short for his age, and one of those gangly kids who'd yet to really grow into his own body. And judging by the size of his father, he probably had quite a bit of growing left to do.

"Eccoci qui," Paolo said, gesturing at something ahead through the forest.

Peering around the straight trunks of pines, Danny spotted something odd. There was a clearing, into which vegetation was slowly encroaching, and within the clearing were several large, dome-shaped mounds. He shivered, though not because of the cold air. When he'd been a kid, his Grandma Wells had told him stories that her mother had told her, stories of mischievous fae-folk of Ireland. In the stories she told, faeries made their homes in ancient mounds, and often carried off naughty children into their ancestral _raths_. He'd always thought Grandma Wells was bullshitting, but seeing the earth mounds here, he began to have doubts.

"Err, we're not going into those, are we?" he asked.

Paolo clearly didn't understand. He gestured for Danny to follow, and led the way around the edge of the clearing. Not far from the mounds, and heavily screened by the wild-growing underbrush, there was a building. It was a small, single-storey stone house. It looked old, and draughty, and when they got closer, he saw lichen and moss had taken root in the gaps between the stone walls. The roof was dirty thatch, but here and there it seemed to have been patched over with newer thatch, and even with what may have been mud or clay.

The whole thing did not appeal, but Danny had no choice. The snow was falling faster now, and, with his jacket still in the bag, he wasn't wearing anything heavier than a shirt. Paolo pushed open the creaky wooden door and took the bag into the house without looking back to check whether Danny was following.

Inside, the house was more like a cabin than a proper home. There was only one room to it, and the room contained everything except a toilet. In one corner was a dilapidated bed with a musty-smelling mattress. A small wood-burning stove was the centrepiece in the ash-laden fireplace, a convection ring in the centre of it the only way to heat water or food. What passed for a kitchen was a large slab of slate spanning wooden posts that had been sunk into the floor, but there were no knives, and no sink for washing dishes.

"What now?" Danny asked.

Paolo either ignored him, or didn't understand, but he set to work immediately. After handing the bag of clothes to Danny, he pulled a few pieces of dry wood and paper kindling from a nook built into the chimney breast, then placed them atop the pile of ashes in the stove. A packet of matches was dug out too, most of them damp. It took several tries for the boy to strike one, and when he did, the damp paper burned so slowly that Danny feared the flames would never take hold properly.

But the flames eventually won the battle, and after a few minutes the fire was burning nicely. Danny pulled his jacket from his bag and settled it around his shoulders as best he could, before sinking down beside the stove and holding his left hand out to the flames.

"Kinda cold, huh?" he asked with another shiver, this one actually caused by the chill in the air. " _Freddo._ "

Paolo nodded. "Sì." He stood and made his way to the bed—no, to a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. It opened with a squeal, and he reached in to pull something out. After shaking off the dust, he handed it to Danny. It was a blanket. A musty-smelling, itchy woollen blanket that the army would've been thrilled to hand out to its recruits, but it was better than nothing. He added it to the jacket around his shoulders, and clasped it closed at his chest with his good hand.

"So," he said, when Paolo brought out a second blanket and joined him staring at the fire, "I guess we wait, huh?"

There was no response, but he hadn't been expecting one. As he stared into the flames, he thought back to Rosa. He still felt like a coward for leaving her, even though she hadn't really given him a choice in the matter. What was happening back there? Was she being questioned? Interrogated? If anything happened to her, he'd never forgive himself.

 _Don_ _'t be an idiot,_ he told himself. _Do you think Paolo would be sitting here like this if his mom was in trouble? Of course not. He_ _'d be panicking. Or running to fetch his dad. Everything will be fine. Just keep your head._

Keeping his head when he was in the dark about Nazis was easier said than done. To occupy his thoughts, he explored the inside of the house. The walls were the same unfurnished rough stone as the outside of the building, and apart from the blankets and small supply of wood, there was little indication that anybody had been here recently. Did that mean it really _was_ some sort of fairy home?

 _No. That_ _'s just stupid. There's no such thing as faeries no matter what Grandma Wells used to say._

Thoughts of fairies brought back a conversation he'd had with some of the guys from the 107th, about that kid's fairy-book Barnes had talked about… _The Hobbit?_ He regretted, now, not reading it. Not because he particularly cared about stories about fairies, but because it would'a been nice to have something else to talk with Barnes about during that night on guard duty in the mine. Maybe if he'd had the book to talk about, he wouldn't have given in to the urge to confess how terrified he was of the confining darkness. And then he wouldn't have let Barnes talk him into writing that damn letter.

For the first time since waking up in Rosa's house, he let his mind truly dwell on what he'd done. And not for the first time since deciding to write the letter, he felt deeply conflicted about its existence. He hated the idea that his inappropriate confession may possibly have ruined a good friendship, but at the same time, he couldn't bear the thought of keeping his feelings to himself any longer.

Why hadn't somebody warned him that something like this could happen to regular guys like him? He'd never been interested in men before, and he could'a been quite happy living his life never being interested in men. He knew, deep down, that this was mostly his own fault. But maybe Barnes was also just a little bit to blame. Where there was smoke, there was fire, after all. If Barnes hadn't been such a nice guy, and a good friend, maybe Danny wouldn't have started to care about him. And maybe he wouldn't have gone on to have that dream—a dream that should'a disgusted him, as it would disgust anybody in his right mind, but instead just made him long for some lingering touch of the hand, or the smallest brush of the lips. Something, anything, to tell him he wasn't alone in feeling like this.

Everything had gotten so much harder, after that damn dream. The constant fear that Barnes would look at him and somehow just _know_ that his feelings had changed, had been a monkey on his shoulder that he just couldn't ignore. Their fight after Franklin and Davies died had helped… until Danny saw the turmoil in his friend's eyes, and wanted nothing more than to pull him close and try some of those things he'd been largely ignorant of as a child. Things such as _comforting hugs_ and _reassuring words_. He'd had the vague notion that things would be just a little bit more _right_ if he could hold Barnes like that, and be held in turn.

It was probably his parents' fault. They'd obviously screwed up badly during the whole parenting process. Tim had bastards scattered across the world, and Danny had inappropriate feelings for a man. That was definitely messed up.

A knock on the only door in the room made him spring guiltily to his feet, heart pounding in his chest. For the briefest of moments he'd seen, in his mind's eye, Barnes knocking on the door, and it brought a flush of guilt to his face over the thought of being caught daydreaming about his friend.

It wasn't Barnes who entered the house; it was Adalina. She was wearing a long brown coat with a wide hood that hadn't quite managed to keep the snowflakes from clinging to her hair. She smiled when she saw Danny and her brother in front of the gently burning fire; a smile of reassurance.

"Is safe now," she said. "Germans gone."

Danny tugged the blanket from his shoulders, and let Paolo take it and fold it up again. "And your mom? Is she okay."

"Mama fine," she nodded. "We go."

"What is this place?" Danny asked, as Paolo doused the fire with water from the kettle he'd put beside the stove.

Adalina screwed up her face in thought. "Ritirata di Lover."

"You love it? I can't see why, it's kind of a dump."

She shook her head. "No. I do not know words. Mama will tell."

With the hut once more in order, Adalina led the way back through the forest. There was no mad hurry, this time. The snow was over an inch deep, and Adalina picked her way carefully through the trees, the crunch of fresh snow issuing from beneath the soles of her sturdy boots.

"What did the Germans want?" he asked. She gave him a quizzical glance over her shoulder. "Nazis. Cosa vuoi?"

"Ah." She grinned. "Formaggio."

 _Cheese_.

That's what the panic had been about? The Krauts had come to pick up a bit of cheese to go with their sausage? His mind went giddy with relief—his foot took advantage of the momentary lapse in concentration, betraying him so that he slipped on a pile of snow-covered pine needles. For the second time that day, his arm was painfully jarred.

"Attenzione!" Adalina instructed, sounding for all the world like her mother. She and Paolo helped him back to his feet, and he brushed at the snow that had clung to his pants.

"I'm getting too old for this," he grumbled. When they both looked at him blankly, he pointed to himself and said, "Vecchio."

Adalina laughed, and he managed to wrestle a small smile out of Paolo. Then, Adalina gestured straight up at the sky, making a movement with her arm that was surprisingly reminiscent of the setting sun. "Si sta facendo buio. Ci dobbiamo sbrigare."

By the time they reached the house, it was almost dark. Rosa was standing by the back door, her face a mask of worry, arms hugging her chest against the cold and snow. As soon as she saw them she bundled them into the house and sat them in front of the fire. Danny swiftly found himself the recipient of a cup of warm milk.

"Are you okay?" he asked, as she fussed over the state of the sling around his shoulder. "The Nazis—"

"I can handle the Nazis," she said, though the tight pinch of her lips suggested she didn't particularly _like_ handling the Nazis. "They came for cheese. That is all. Word has not yet spread that you are here, but we can't keep it quiet forever. Sooner or later, someone from the village will see you, and gossip will spread. We must come up with a cover for you. Something believable. A pity you do not speak Italian better; we could have passed you off as some distant relative of Matteo." She grasped his chin in her hand, turning his face this way and that as she studied him. "Your hair is the right colour, and blue eyes are quite common in this area of Italy."

"If it helps, I speak French."

Doubt flitted across her face. "How well?"

"Bien assez que je pourrais probablement passer pour Français à un Allemand qui n'est pas trop familier avec la langue," he shrugged.

"Better than Italian, whatever you said." She nodded, as if they'd managed to negotiate an agreement. "Very well. You will be the son of Matteo's first cousin, come to stay with us after his family was killed in the fighting. What is a suitably French name?"

"Hard to go wrong with 'Pierre.'" Something plain and simple.

"Then, if the Germans surprise us again, or we have to introduce you to anybody from the village, you will be Pierre."

He sincerely hoped she _would_ have to introduce him to people from the village. If the snow outside truly was winter's herald, that meant very little movement would be happening. The Allies wouldn't come rolling in, and Danny wouldn't be able to go very far to find an Allied camp. He liked Rosa's family just fine—or would, if Matteo would stop giving him dark scowls—but he thought he might go crazy if he had to spend the next three months talking to the same four people. Three people, if you didn't count Matteo. Technically two, since he couldn't really converse with Paolo yet, and the boy was pretty damn withdrawn anyway.

"What was that place Paolo took me to?" he remembered to ask at last. "And those strange mounds? Were they burial mounds? Somewhere you bury your dead?"

Rosa snorted loudly. "Of course not! The house once belonged to a man who was… I am unsure of the exact term in English. It was his job. He made charcoal. That is what the mounds are. Wood piles, covered with earth. But it was a dying trade, and when the man passed away several years ago, there was nobody to carry on. Now, the house is known as _Lovers Retreat_ —it is a place young couples go for romantic trysts when they wish to be away from the eyes of their disapproving relatives. It is the most widely known secret in the village, but clearly not something discussed openly, and certainly not around Germans."

"Oh." That certainly explained the blankets, and the small supply of firewood.

"Nobody goes there in winter," Rosa elaborated. "It is too remote, too cold and bare inside. But in summer, when passions flare with the heat, it is very popular."

"Well, hopefully I won't have to go there again," he offered. "Maybe the snow will keep the Germans away."

"We'll see." She didn't sound convinced. "But for now, go and wash up. Dinner will be ready soon."

Danny followed Adalina and Paolo up the stairs, then peeled off into the bedroom that was swiftly becoming like a second home. He sat on the edge of the bed, shrugged his jacket from his shoulders, and reached for the washbowl and cloth by the side of the bed. The snow falling outside the window caught his eye once more, and he felt a twinge of guilt in his stomach. If it was snowing like this wherever the brass had set up camp, the guys of the 107th would be in for a rough time out there.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Sorry I didn't get around to responding to reviews of the last chapter, I've had a hectic week. So, belated thanks to everyone. Glad to hear Bucky's plight is tugging on more than a few heart-strings._


	67. The Star-Spangled Man

We Were Soldiers

 _67\. The Star-Spangled Man_

A break in the day's intermittent rain brought a small measure of reprieve to the sodden ground. Hundreds of war-weary soldiers sat staring up at the stage on anything they could find to keep themselves out of the mud. They cheered the chorus girls who belted out Captain America's introduction to the musical accompaniment of a gramophone that wasn't quite powerful enough to reach the back of the crowd. But the cheers were half-hearted, the faces haunted and grim. They watched through eyes that had seen too much.

From beneath the awning of the nurse's tent, Peggy watched their reactions change as the girls left the stage. The lights in their eyes grew a little dimmer as a flamboyantly dressed man strode out from the wing, but Peggy's heart momentarily lifted. She'd only found out about the USO show twenty-four hours earlier. Colonel Phillips had dropped it into the conversation as if it wasn't even important.

" _By the way, the USO's sending Captain America himself to entertain us tomorrow. Ask the Engineers to assemble a stage."_

She'd stood there open-mouthed, digesting the casual nugget of information until Phillips noticed she hadn't saluted and left to obey.

" _Do you need me to write that down for you, Agent?"_

" _No sir."_

She'd saluted. She'd left. Tried not to be too annoyed that the man had only just decided to tell her that Steve Rogers would be arriving at camp the very next day. It had been a rough couple of weeks for the SSR. They'd suffered significant losses at Azzano, with those who'd managed to return exhausted and injured. Before Phillips could even consider planning a rescue, they'd been ordered to move ten klicks to the south and meet up with a company from the 8th Army, and here they'd sat, guarding an airfield that was so muddy it was barely capable of being used.

And yet, just when things had never seemed bleaker, in strode a splash of colour amongst the soul-crushing olive drab and grey, a tiny spark of light to illuminate the darkness. Well, perhaps not _tiny_. Steve Rogers was not the same skinny guy he'd been before Project Rebirth. Still, he seemed oddly small, on the stage. As if the emptiness was trying to swallow him into its uncomfortable silence. She thought she saw his shoulders dip a little as his eyes scanned the sea of faces before him. For a man who wanted nothing but to fight, being a show-pony for soldiers must have galled him terribly.

She allowed herself a moment of fancy to wonder whether, during the months since their parting, he'd ever spared a moment to think of her. It was silly. Foolish. Of course he wouldn't have thought of her; he was a USO star now. He had comic books and radio shows and, if the USO posters could be believed, even movies. Now he'd be surrounded daily by pretty women taking a fancy to America's newest darling… and she could hardly blame him if he'd allowed himself the freedom to enjoy the company of women. It wasn't as if he'd had much of a chance before.

Of course, telling herself that didn't stop a little knot of jealousy from burning in her stomach. She'd known Steve before he became a famous symbol of American freedom. She'd appreciated his sense of humour and respected his determination. She just hoped Steve knew she'd seen the best of him _before_ he'd been injected with the serum that had changed his life.

"How many of you are ready to help me sock old Adolf on the jaw?" he asked, his voice carrying well enough for Peggy to hear clearly. Mentally, she groaned. It wasn't the right question to ask men who'd been fighting for months. Men who'd lost friends and brothers-in-arms. His question was met with a resounding silence from which Steve tried to recover. She suspected he'd been given a script to follow, and now that script was letting him down. "Okay. Uh… I need a volunteer."

"I already volunteered!" somebody heckled from the audience. Peggy couldn't make out who it was. "How do you think I got here?"

The comment elicited a laugh from the men around him. Guiltily, Peggy stifled a smile.

"Bring back the girls!" somebody else called. A suggestion that was met with a round of cheers. Poor Steve floundered. He looked to the wings for help that never came.

"I think they only know the one song, but, err, I'll see what I can do."

"You do that, sweetheart," another heckler said.

"Nice boots, Tinkerbell!" added a familiar voice. _Hodge_.

Peggy rolled her eyes. After almost five months with the American troops, she'd learnt that insults were a large part of Army life, and that trading them was considered a form of camaraderie. A soldier more familiar with Army banter would've shot something right back, but Steve wasn't familiar with Army banter; he took it personally.

"C'mon guys, we're all on the same team here."

His too-serious rejection of their way of life opened a floodgate. One man called, "Hey Captain, sign this!" as he turned and dropped his pants. This one Peggy _did_ recognise; she made a mental note to chew him out later. The men of the 107th had become more unruly since Sergeant Barnes was lost on the mission to Azzano, and the newly-promoted Sergeant Ferguson didn't have quite the same knack for keeping the men in line that his predecessors had. Sergeant Barnes would've appealed to the men's better natures; Sergeant Wells would've threatened them with latrine duty. Sergeant Ferguson didn't have the same confidence in his own authority that the others had possessed in bucketfuls; the men sometimes took advantage of that, even with Corporal Biggs to back him up.

Before Peggy could do anything about it, food was flying. Tomatoes—where the hell had _they_ come from?—went sailing through the air. The men who threw them had good aim; Steve was forced to yank up his shield to divert the ripe projectiles. This had gone far enough. Heckling was one thing, but now they were wasting food. The kitchen staff would throw a _fit_ if they found out.

She stepped out from beneath the awning and pushed her way through the crowd. When she reached the men who'd been throwing tomatoes—a pair from the 8th Army, so slightly out of her jurisdiction—she held out her hand and said, "Hand them over, or I'll let the cook know exactly who's been stealing tomatoes from his stores."

The bag of offending fruits was sheepishly produced. Peggy snatched the contraband and turned back to the stage to tell Steve he could continue without being pelted. It was too late; he strode off as the chorus girls came trotting back to the sound of the gramophones music, and a moment later they were joined by a drum percussionist who provided a jaunty dancing beat. Captain America would be signing no autographs today.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The stage's canvas roof was poor shelter from the pouring rain, but it was better than nothing. The audience had dashed for cover as soon as the rain started falling again, and the girls were already back in their small tent. Kevin was taking refuge in the tent he now shared with Steve, no doubt completely miserable about the rain, and the cold, and the _rural-ness_ of it all. Out here, it was just Steve and the rain, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so isolated.

When he'd walked out onto that stage, he'd expected it to be like Palermo. He'd expected some small measure of teasing and heckling, but he hadn't imagined it to be so… hostile. Since walking off stage, he'd replayed it over and over again in his mind, and he realised the mistake was his. He shouldn't have expected the men here to be like the men in Palermo. This wasn't a camp with the luxuries of a city close to hand. Palermo was safe. Warm. Comfortable. Out here, the camp could be attacked at any moment. The men were on edge, and they were cold, and they were miserable. They still had a long road ahead of them.

He doodled as he ruminated about his performance. How he'd change it next time. Whether there would even _be_ a next time. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the end of the line. As far as he could go with the show, because there was nobody left who wanted to watch him.

Only… hadn't Kevin mentioned something about London? Steve hadn't been paying attention at the time, but he was sure the guy had said the show would be ending in London. The thought made his heart constrict inside his chest. If he left the front lines, he'd never get back. He'd never find Bucky—if Bucky was even here—and he'd never be allowed to fight like the men who'd so ruthlessly pummelled him with groceries. He'd never get the chance to earn their respect, or to make his dad proud.

He heard quiet footsteps approach as he put the finishing touches on his uni-cycling circus monkey doodle, but ignored them. One of the girls no doubt, come to try and cheer him up. He wasn't much in the mood to be cheered up.

"Hello, Steve."

His head whipped around so fast that he felt the _crick_ in his neck. There, walking amongst the proud eagle statues and the star-spangled banners, was Agent Carter, her hair damp from the rain. At that moment, everything else—his humiliating performance, the desire to fight, the need to find his best friend—fell away, replaced by a surreal, dream-like feeling of _this can_ _'t be real._

"Hi," he said, the master of eloquence.

"Hi." She offered a muted smile as she folded her coat across her lap and took a seat on one of the wardrobe trunks.

Was this real? It couldn't be real. Agent Carter. Here. Looking exactly the same as the last time he'd seen her; just as professional. Just as strong. Just as beautiful. _Say something, idiot,_ the part of his mind that was still capable of functioning prompted him.

"What are you doing here?" he blurted out. _Real smooth. Just what she wants; the Spanish Inquisition._

"Officially, I'm not here at all." She gestured to the stage with a sweep of her hand. Why had he never noticed before how delicate and slender her fingers looked? "That was quite a performance."

Her words brought the humiliation crashing back down into his surreal, Carter-filled world. _She saw the show?_ She'd seen the awkwardness, and the tomatoes, and the rudely revealed buttocks of a heckler? He quickly glanced away from the look in her eyes. He didn't want to see mockery there. Didn't want to see pity, either. He wasn't sure which would be worse.

"Uh, yeah. I head to improvise a little bit." He scratched his nose, then stopped himself. Bucky had always told him that his nose-scratching was one of his poker-tells when he was bluffing. Steve never realised he was doing it, but it explained why he never won at poker against Bucky. "The crowds I'm used to are usually more… ah…" _Respectful. Impressed. Well-fed._ "Twelve." Yes, the twelve year old demographic had definitely increased since the comics came out.

"I understand you're _'America's new hope.'_ " She said it in such a jaded tone that he couldn't help but throw up a defence.

"Bond sales take a ten percent bump in every state I visit."

"Is that Senator Brandt I hear?"

Close; it was Kevin. But it probably amounted to the same. Still, they'd given him a chance. Thanks to both of them, Steve was in Europe. He was a glorified propaganda piece, but at he was on the right continent.

"At least he's got me doing this. Phillips would'a had me stuck in a lab." And not even a _nice_ lab. Alamagordo; some Army Air Field installation. Probably a place with a dark, deep bunker, where Steve would never have seen the light of day.

Agent Carter gestured to his sketch book. "And these are your only two options: a lab rat, or a dancing monkey? You were meant for more than this, you know."

Hearing her say the words he'd been thinking for the past few months opened a floodgate inside him; one through which a tidal wave of sadness came pouring in. She was completely and utterly right. Abraham Erskine hadn't died so that the sum of his work could be paraded around on a stage. Erskine had wanted to make a difference. To create a tool to help win the war in the name of freedom; a tool he had given to Steve, who'd wasted it because people were _still_ closing doors in his face.

When he glanced up at her, her saw something in her eyes. Maybe it was pride, or conviction, or heck, maybe it was just the overcast grey sky reflected in their mirror-like depths. Looking at her, he was struck by a powerful feeling that she wasn't just talking about the serum, and Project Rebirth. Even before that, she'd been in his corner. Plenty of folks believed in Captain America, but those who believed in Steve Rogers were few and far between. Even Bucky, his oldest and dearest friend, had looked at Steve and seen somebody who'd never make it _on_ the front lines, much less _to_ them.

But Agent Carter had.

And now he was sitting here, wearing tights, being given a pep talk by the most beautiful dame in Europe. It didn't seem fair.

"What?" she asked when she noticed his change in expression.

"Y'know, for the longest time, I dreamed about coming overseas, being on the front lines, serving my country. I finally got everything I wanted… and I'm wearing tights."

The warning blare of a passing car horn cut off Agent Carter's reply before it could leave her rouged lips. Steve followed the Red Cross jeep with his eyes. Watched as the driver called for medics who came scrambling from the hospital tent. From the back of the vehicle they carried out a man on a stretcher, and Steve immediately tensed. But even from this distance, he could tell it wasn't Bucky.

 _Of course it wasn_ _'t Bucky._ Bucky was probably a hundred miles away from here.

"They look like they've been through hell," he mused aloud.

Peggy nodded. "These men more than most." When he fixed her with a questioning glance, she hesitated only briefly before elaborating. "Schmidt sent out a force to Azzano." Steve's fingers curled into his palm at the mention of the name. Schmidt was the one who'd ordered Erskine killed. A butcher. A murderer. A monster. "Two hundred men went up against him, and less than fifty returned. Your audience contained what was left of the 107th. The rest were killed or captured."

Her words were a punch to his gut. A sharp intake of breath whistled through his lips and into lungs that didn't know how to process air anymore. _What? Bucky_ _… no. NO!_ It couldn't be. He'd misheard.

"The 107th?" he asked, internally begging her to correct his mistake, to somehow soothe the panic that was winding its way through his chest, constricting his lungs, stealing his air and his words.

"What?" she asked, when she saw his inner turmoil.

"My best friend's in the 107th! Bucky—Sergeant James Barnes. Is he alive? Do you know?"

"Sergeant Barnes?" she said. "He was your friend?"

" _Was_?" Something sharp bit into fingers, but he barely felt it. "What do you mean, _was_?"

She didn't answer at first. Her dark eyes travelled down to his hand, and widened. He followed her gaze. Opened his hand. Found his pencil splintered into wickedly sharp shards that his own grip had pushed beneath the skin. He dropped the ruined pencil and watched spatters of blood paint the floor. Didn't matter. He would heal. Increased metabolism.

"Tell me what happened." Somehow, he managed to make his voice sound calm. Controlled. He managed to put a stopper in the bottle before everything could come pouring out of him. All of this—the USO, the war, the serum—meant _nothing_ if he lost his best friend. _Bucky_ _'s family!_ How could he ever go home and tell them their son was dead? He couldn't. _Wouldn_ _'t_.

As she spoke, Agent Carter pulled a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and held it out to him. He took it, because he suspected if he didn't, she'd force it on him. His hand stung when he began wiping the blood away, and he had to pick a few splinters out.

"We got word that the Nazis were moving to take Azzano," she began. "Sergeant Barnes was with the group sent to defend the town. Halfway through the battle, a HYDRA tank rolled up and decimated what was left of the Nazi forces. HYDRA troops began taking our soldiers prisoner. A few of Sergeant Barnes' men made it back; they said he'd ordered them to fall back and deliver intel while he stayed behind to help defend their flank during the retreat. That was the last anybody saw of him."

Steve's world rocked as the scene played out before his mind. The battlefield. The fight. Guns blazing and men falling. A HYDRA tank and soldiers who wore the face of the guy who'd assassinated Dr. Erskine. Troops rounded up and marched away like cattle. Bucky's face was amongst them, worn, dirty, bleeding.

 _No._

"It's another Sergeant Barnes," he said. "Common name. There must'a been a few guys called Barnes in the 107th. You've got him confused with someone else."

She reached out a hand, lay it gently on his shoulder, and his mind went right back to when his mom had died. How everyone had treated him with kid gloves after that. They hadn't wanted to talk about Sarah Rogers, in case it made him sad. So, they talked around her. Talked about everything else. And her absence became greater because of it.

"I understand," Agent Carter said softly. "When I lost my brother, Michael, I didn't want to believe it at first. _Couldn_ _'t_ believe it. But if it helps, there's a casualty list. You could review the names of the men who were lost at Azzano."

 _Lost_. A pale, watercolour way of saying _dead_. The doctor in the TB ward had been the same. He'd watched Steve sit beside his mom every day for two weeks. When she'd said her goodbye, kissed Steve on the forehead and closed her eyes, the doctor had come along and listened with his stethoscope to the absence of sound from her breast. _She_ _'s gone._ Gone. It was like _lost_. It implied _somewhere_ , yet nobody knew where that _somewhere_ was. All he knew was that it wasn't here.

He couldn't do that to Bucky's family. He couldn't let their son be _lost_. He was either alive, or he'd been killed. There could be no in-between.

"Where's the list?" he asked.

"In the command tent. Colonel Phillips is in charge of the condolence letters."

 _Oh God._ What if he'd already written one to Bucky's family? What if it had been sent? What if they were already reading it, crying over it, mourning their son? The thought of their tears threatened to bring his own to his eyes. Bucky's life flashed briefly before him; the adventures they'd had, the fights they'd shared, the sleep-overs and shared dinners and double-dates and bad jokes.

He turned and stepped into the rain. A soldier had already pointed out the command tent to him, earlier in the afternoon, and now he ran for it, slowing only to call, "Come on!" to Agent Carter over his shoulder. She hoisted her coat up over her head, and followed.

Despite the rain, the command tent was a hive of activity. Five colonels, their XOs and support staff made for cramped quarters. Phillips had a desk, but it was a small one. He looked up when Steve marched towards him, not even a glimmer of surprise registering on his craggy face.

"Well, if it isn't the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan," the colonel barked. "What is your plan today?"

"I need the casualty list from Azzano," Steve told him. He probably should'a saluted, but it was too late now. Besides, he was still wearing tights. No chance he was gonna salute a man while wearing tights.

"You don't get to give me orders, son," Phillips countered.

 _Idiot. Should_ _'a saluted._ "I just need one name: Sergeant James Barnes, from the 107th."

Phillips' gaze shifted to Carter's face, and he pointed his pen at her. "You and I are gonna have a conversation later that you won't enjoy."

"Please tell me if he's alive, sir. B-A-R—"

"I can spell," the colonel interrupted. He stared at Steve for a moment, long and hard, and it was all Steve could do to stand there and not fidget. Finally, Phillips stood and gestured to the letters piled on his desk. "I've signed more condolence letters since the start of this campaign than I would care to count, and Sergeant Barnes' is amongst them. I'm sorry."

Steve's hands twitched as, in his mind's eye, he picked up the letters and ransacked the pile for Bucky's. If he could destroy that letter, he could make all of this a lie. Bucky's death… his _alleged_ death… wouldn't be true.

"Has his letter been sent?" he asked.

Phillips nodded. "The Azzano letters went last week."

Steve's heart dropped. If the letters had been posted, that meant they could already be on their way back to the States. Any day now, Mrs. Barnes might look up from baking her trademark apple pie and see the postman walk through the yard carrying an eagle-stamped letter in his hand. He could already feel her heart breaking; his own heart was breaking in sympathy inside his chest.

"What about the others?" he asked. "The ones taken prisoner." Bucky might be amongst them. Steve's eye was drawn up, to a map pinned to a board. He saw the front line sketched out, and the location of numerous small towns and villages. "Are you planning a rescue mission?"

"Yeah, it's called winning the war."

"But if you know where they are, why not at least—"

"They're thirty miles behind the lines," Phillips barked, "through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe." His finger tracked upwards to a place called _Krausberg_ , just over the Austrian border. "We'd lose more men than we'd save. But I don't expect you to understand that, because you're a chorus girl."

Steve tried to keep the scowl from his face. More and more of the other officers were listening in to Phillips' dressing-down. No doubt tales of Captain America being called a _chorus girl_ would be spreading around camp by the end of the day. But that didn't matter; Steve wouldn't be there to hear them. Phillips had unwittingly given him he location of where the POWs were being kept.

"I think I understand just fine," Steve assured him, his heart beating a calm rhythm now that he had a plan.

"Well then understand it somewhere else." Phillips strode past, to stand with a couple of the other colonels around a table with a topographical map laid on top. "If I read the posters correctly, you got someplace to be in thirty minutes."

Steve's eyes drifted once more to the map on the board. _Krausberg._

"Yes sir. I do."

If there was another response, he didn't hear it. He strode out from under the khaki roof and made a beeline for the USO's storage tent. Here, their belongings, props and general day-to-day show items had been stashed safely out of the way. The girls' short dresses were neatly hung from a clothes rail; his trusty old shield was dumped unceremoniously on a table.

It shouldn't be too hard to take a jeep. Camp security was pretty lax. Whilst waiting for the girls to get ready for the show, he'd watched the comings and goings of the troops. Men were moving all the time, and often they left a jeep running with its key in the ignition while they carried out their business in camp. All he had to do was find one that was waiting for its driver to return and… borrow… it. He'd need supplies, too. Rations, water, a blanket, maybe a map…

The rustle of fabric was Agent Carter dashing into the tent behind him. He knew it was her, even with his back to her, because he could smell her perfume.

"What do you plan to do?" she demanded. "Walk to Austria?"

Packing his bag, he answered idly. "If that's what it takes."

"You heard the colonel. Your friend is most likely dead."

Her words hit the emotional umbrella he'd erected around himself and ran down like drops of rain. If Bucky was dead, he'd find proof. Until he had proof, Bucky was still alive, and no arguments to the contrary would sway him.

"You don't know that."

When she spoke again, he could hear the desperation rising in her voice. He couldn't blame her, not really. She saw this as a fool's errand that would probably get him killed. She didn't understand that it wasn't _his_ wellbeing he was concerned for. But… even in his haste, he could appreciate that _she_ was concerned for him.

"Even so, he's devising a strategy. If he detects—"

"By the time he's done that, it could be too late," he interrupted. A flicker of annoyance in her eyes warned him against interrupting her so rudely again. "Look, I don't have time to wait until the war's over," he said, striving for calmness in his voice. If she thought he was running off with his head hot, it would only put her back up even more. "Bucky's my best friend. Sometimes, he's been my only friend. He's pulled my ass out of the fire more times than I can count. We grew up together, closer than brothers. If it was _your_ brother behind that line, what would you do?"

Her tight-lipped silence was all the confirmation he needed. On the way out of the tent, he stopped by the shelved row of helmets the girls used as props during their dance. Props they might be, but they were genuine Army helmets, just painted in the show's colours. They'd do a better job at deflecting bullets than his own skull. But did he want _S_ for Steve, or _A_ for America?

He grabbed the _A_ helmet. _I_ _'m going in there as Captain America, but I'm coming out as Steve Rogers. And I'm bringing my friend with me._

Agent Carter caught up with him at the first abandoned jeep he found. He tossed his duffel bag onto the back seat and pulled his brown leather jacket over his shoulders. When he dared to glance at her, rain-soaked but even more beautiful because of it, her dark eyes were full of reproach. He was doing this with or without her support, but it would be nice to know she was still rooting for him. That she wasn't going to run back and tell Phillips what he'd done the moment he was out of camp.

"You told me you thought I was meant for more than this," he said. "Did you mean that?"

There was no hesitation. Just a deepening look of conviction. "Every word."

He offered a brief smile. He hated lies and platitudes. "Then you gotta let me go."

He hopped into the driver's seat and grabbed hold of the wheel, but before he could put the vehicle into gear, Agent Carter was there, hands beside his and a barely suppressed sparkle of excitement in her eyes.

"I can do more than that."

"What do you mean?"

She glanced around, waiting for a couple of soldiers to pass. "Come with me. And bring your bag and that helmet."

A brief war was fought inside him. One voice in his head told him to stop wasting time and continue with his jeep plan. A second voice advised him to put a little trust in Agent Carter. So far, she hadn't let him down, and she knew this area better than he did.

He grabbed his gear and followed her. When he was close enough, he asked quietly, "What's the plan?"

"Howard has a plane, and he's a damn good pilot."

The mental image of Howard Stark in a plane, sliding all over the airfield, was rudely thrust into Steve's mind. "Have you _seen_ the airstrip recently?"

"It's a small plane. He can take off at the edge of camp."

Steve swallowed the lump lodged in his throat. Six hours ago, he'd told himself he wouldn't be getting back in a plane any time soon. But this was _Bucky_. Bucky, who would walk through fire and go to hell and back for a friend. There was no question, nothing to even consider; if there was a plane, he'd take it. Whether it was made of metal or made of paper, he'd take the risk.

They found Howard Stark tinkering with some contraption inside a small, contraption-filled tent, humming the theme song of _The Star-Spangled Man_ to himself as he worked. When he glanced up and saw Agent Carter, he smiled. When he saw Steve behind her, the smile turned into a grin.

"Mr. Rogers! An excellent first performance you gave us today. Having the girls come in to do that encore… and then the second and third encores… brilliant!"

"Howard, we need to borrow your plane," Agent Carter said.

Suddenly, Stark was all business. "Oh? Where are we going?"

"Austria."

 _This is it,_ thought Steve. _The moment when Agent Carter_ _'s plan falls apart. Nobody in their right mind would fly a plane over the Alps and into a hostile country. Heck, it's dangerous enough flying over Italy._

And indeed, Stark's dark eyes looked troubled beneath furrowed brows. "Austria, hmm? What's the occasion?"

"My best friend, Sergeant Barnes, went missing at Azzano," Steve explained. "I'm going to find him."

"What, that black fella from the 370th?"

"Howard."

It was amazing how much unspoken warning women could put into a single word issued in a _very_ specific tone of voice. Bucky's mom had been able to do it, and Mary-Ann, too. A word. A tone. A glare. It said more than the most eloquent of political speeches, and even Steve wanted to wince despite the glare being aimed at another man.

"Alright, alright." Stark threw his hands into the air. "We'll go rescue Sergeant Sarcasm. You two wait here for a few minutes while I go change into something more appropriate for high-altitude flying and perform a few pre-flight checks on Amelia."

Steve couldn't help it. The question was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "Amelia?"

Stark aimed a loving smile at the nearby tarp-covered plane.

"You named your plane?"

"After the world's greatest female aviator, no less: Amelia Earhart." Stark issued him another grin. "She went missing over the Pacific during a circumnavigational flight six years ago. Some say she died in a burning fireball; others think she absconded from her husband with another man."

Steve's stomach did something unpleasant. "That doesn't inspire me with confidence in your plane."

"I met Amelia once, the year before she disappeared. Very feisty." Stark rubbed his hands together. "Right. Let me go get changed. I'll be back in less than ten minutes. While I'm gone, please don't touch anything. I know what you soldiers are like for stealing things and breaking things and leaning on—"

"Just go," Agent Carter scowled.

He did. That left Steve alone in the company of the most beautiful woman on either side of the Atlantic. Her gaze assessed him frankly, as if measuring him against some invisible scale for the upcoming rescue mission. If Bucky were already here, he'd probably say something entirely inappropriate yet charmingly Bucky-ish, if he saw Carter looking at Steve like that. _Like what you see?_ perhaps, or, O _ur latest model of Steve Rogers is a little rough around the edges, but it_ _'s undergone some significant bodywork upgrades._ In fact, maybe Bucky had already tried a little of his charm on Agent Carter. Only one way to find out.

Steve cleared his throat. "So. You… um… knew Bucky? I mean, Sergeant Barnes? _Know_ him, I mean. Not _knew_ him. Present tense."

Agent Carter suppressed a smile, probably at his clumsiness. "Not very well, but well enough to know that he was—I mean, _is_ —a good soldier and a good friend. The men in his regiment think very highly of him, as does Colonel Phillips."

Steve couldn't help the quiet snort that came from his nose. "Right. He thinks so highly of Bucky that he won't even send a rescue party."

"Things aren't always as they seem, Steve," she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. He looked into her eyes, then quickly looked away before he could drown in them. This wasn't the time to be thinking about dames. He had to stay focused on Bucky. "Colonel Phillips wanted to mount a rescue operation as soon as he heard that HYDRA was involved and taking men captive. But we were ordered to retreat behind the line's current position and meet up with a company from the 8th Army. When we got here, he tried again to plan a rescue, but there are too many other colonels interfering, and one went to General Patton, who forbade any rescue attempt. Called it _a waste of resources._ "

"Oh." He hadn't realised the Army was so… so… political. He'd always thought the armed forces were above that sort of thing. That when he joined up, he wouldn't have to deal with politicians anymore. Clearly, that wasn't the case.

Now he had to deal with politicians who carried guns, and he wasn't sure whether that was better, or worse.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: With regards to the location of the HYDRA factory, the MCU wikia names it Kreischberg, whilst in the film's subtitles, Peggy names it Krausberg. I've chosen to go with the latter._


	68. Such a hawk as thou

We Were Soldiers

 _68\. Such a hawk as thou_

The loud drone of the engines made conversation difficult even for Steve. He was still getting used to focusing on single sounds, on blanking out invasive background noises. His hearing, like his balance, was a work in progress.

The plane cut its way through the velvet darkness of the night sky, carrying Steve closer and closer to the answers he both longed for and dreaded. What if Bucky really _was_ dead? What would he do then? How could the world keep turning without Bucky in it?

"The HYDRA camp in Krausberg is tucked between these two mountain ranges," said Agent Carter, directing his gaze down to the map laid over her knee. "It's a factory of some kind. All the intelligence we have suggests that it's well-guarded, but we have nothing solid on gun placements or perimeter defences. I'm afraid that once you get down there, you'll be in the dark."

"On the bright side," Stark chimed in from the cockpit, "We should be able to drop you right on the doorstep."

"Just get me as close as you can," Steve called back.

They'd already told him it was too risky to put the plane down, which meant he'd have to jump. It wasn't a prospect he was relishing, but if it was the only way he could get his feet down in Austria, he'd do it. Carter had given him a brief lesson on how and when to deploy a parachute, but she'd warned him that paratroopers normally underwent multiple test jumps from varying heights before being allowed to do it for real. Steve's first jump would be a crash course, and she potentially meant that _literally_.

"Y'know, you two are gonna be in a lot of trouble when you land," he told them. Their get-away had gone smoothly, with a fast takeoff that nobody had been able to stop. The last thing Steve had seen, looking out of the tiny window down at the camp below, was half a dozen heads peeping out from beneath the command tent, expressions of surprise written on their faces.

"And you won't?" she countered.

"Where I'm going, if anybody yells at me I can just shoot them."

"They will undoubtedly shoot back."

Steve fought back a smile at the concern in her voice. Apart from his mom, and Bucky's family, nobody had ever shown much concern before over Steve's welfare. More than once he'd spotted the shadowy forms of people walking by the alleys he'd gotten beat up in, their gazes fixed ahead as they carefully didn't see. The care in Agent Carter's eyes, made soft and dewy by the pale yellow lights of the plane's cabin, was genuine, and he didn't think she wanted him to be careful for the sake of the USO.

He rapped his knuckles on the shield propped against the seat beside him. "Well, let's hope it's good for something."

"Agent Carter?" Stark called back. "If we're not in too much of a hurry, I thought we could stop off in Lucerne for a late-night fondue."

Steve couldn't see the grin on Stark's face, but he could _hear_ it. Agent Carter didn't answer as her eyes darted briefly around the cabin in search of something—anything—else to discuss. Steve felt his heart take a small dive towards the ground at a hundred miles an hour. _Idiot._ _How the hell can_ you _compete with_ Stark _? He_ _'s rich, and a genius, and well-educated, and he's had months alone with Agent Carter._ Still, she hadn't answered. And now, he needed to know. Was she doing this, supporting his plan and helping his mission, as a friend, or as… something else?

"Stark is the best civilian pilot I've ever seen," she said quickly, as the question danced on his lips, itching to be let out. "He's mad enough to brave this airspace. We're lucky to have him."

"So, are you two…" He hesitated. "Do you…" Jeez, those romantic movies always made it seem to easy, to talk to dames. What was the word Stark had used? "…Fondue?"

It wasn't the right question to ask. He could tell by the fleeting look of annoyance that crossed her face. Instead of answering, she handed over a small black box.

"This is your transponder. Activate it when you're ready and the signal will lead us straight to you."

He toyed with it for a moment, then shouted over to Stark. "Are you sure this thing works?" Because it was easier than thinking about what Agent Carter _hadn_ _'t_ said.

"It's been tested more than you, pal," Stark assured him.

In the time it took to get from one heartbeat to the next, Steve experienced a sickening déjà vu as the night air exploded in a shower of flak. Stark rolled the plane, and Steve damn near rolled right on to Agent Carter. Inside his chest, his heart was starting to race again, preparing his body as flashes of memory and thoughts of _here we go again_ tumbled through his mind.

The flak didn't let up. The plane must've been right in their sights, because it was all Stark could do to hurl 'Amelia' to the left to dodge another bright spray of anti-aircraft rounds. Against the backdrop of the night, the explosions created a deadly beauty.

 _Just like 4th July, back home._

The memory hit him hard, a dozen or more fourth of Julys, all shared with the man—the boy, the best friend—he was now on a mission to bring home. Candied apples and miniature flags and sparklers and apple pie, a day of excess culminating in beautiful displays of light.

He pushed the memory away with a thought of _next year_. Grabbed his shield. Hauled himself from his seat and leapt towards the door with all the grace of a drunk. Agent Carter was almost as quick. Her deceptively firm hand tugged on his shoulder as he yanked open the door.

"Get back here!" she commanded. "We're taking you all the way in!"

There was no time for that. No time to think, no time to plan, no time to strategise. Now, he just had to _do_.

With the door open, the drone of the engines and the thunderous booms of exploding rounds were an almost physical assault on his still-adapting ears. Taking a deep breath, he looked out across the shadowed forest below. Hard to tell where the flak was coming from, but if he was real quick, and extremely lucky, maybe he could avoid being hit. He turned to glance up at Carter. The dark pools of her eyes reflected the explosions in the air. A tiny, brazen voice inside his head—one which sounded _exactly_ like his absent best friend—demanded he ask for a kiss for good luck. He ignored his inner-Bucky.

"As soon as I'm clear, you turn this thing around and get the hell out of here," he yelled above the deafening cacophony.

"You can't give me orders!" Agent Carter bristled.

"The hell I can't; I'm a Captain!"

He gave her a smile that she didn't return because she was far too busy looking worried. Before she could try to talk him out of it, he pulled the goggles perched atop his helmet down over his eyes, took one last deep breath of sweet, freezing air, and launched himself as hard as he could from the interior of the plane.

He fell. Heavy, weightless, fast as an arrow, almost unmoving through the vast emptiness of the sky. The goggles were not particularly effective; air streamed in through the cracks between the seal and his skin, chilly air that nipped at his eyes and forced streaming tears along his cheeks. Breathing was difficult; he fell too fast past the air to suck it in, so instead he savoured the one deep breath in his lungs.

The ground loomed. He reached out to pull his parachute cord as more flak exploded above him. The men on the ground were still aiming for the plane. Maybe they hadn't seen him yet, but they would as soon as he released his chute. But he had no choice. Make himself a target, or break his neck. At least he'd stand a _chance_ with the flak. The ground would not be so forgiving.

He pulled the cord. Nothing could have prepared him for the harsh jerk of gravity interrupted as the open chute caught the night breeze and roughly halted his free fall. Suspended from ropes, with no way of directing his descent, he felt naked and vulnerable. He closed his streaming eyes for a moment and swiftly sent a prayer to God and his folks, asking them to look out for him one last time.

Either they were listening, or the Krauts' aim was bad. Though the night continued to explode in hues of amber and gold, he managed to avoid being hit. The forest beneath seemed to stretch up to catch him, and he tucked up his legs as the tree tops brushed his feet. He'd imagined a graceful landing; the chute lowering him softly to the ground, Steve releasing the straps around his back even as he was setting off at a jog towards the place his friend was being kept.

Reality was not graceful. His chute caught in the upper bows of a stand of sharp-needled pines, yanking him painfully again. The ropes around his shoulders cut into his arms, numbing them as he struggled to free himself. The trees kept a mercilessly tight grip on his parachute, and the more he struggled, the less free he became. Finally, he decided there was nothing for it. He drew his knife and cut through the ropes of his chute. He fell the last five metres to the ground, slipped in mud and landed heavily on his left side. A groan escaped his lips as he pushed himself to his feet and tried to rub a little feeling back into his left shoulder.

 _It doesn_ _'t happen like_ that _in the movies,_ he thought. If his audiences had seen that landing, they'd be laughing their butts off at Captain America right now.

He could no longer hear the plane overhead, but he was certain he would've heard it go down or get hit in mid-air. That meant Agent Carter and Mr. Stark had made it safely away from German airspace. And it meant they were going to have to do it all over again, when he activated his…

As he thrust his hand into his pocket, his heart sank. The crack in the transponder's casing was rough against his fingers, and when he brought it out and toyed with it, the entire thing was completely dead. What was he gonna do now?

 _I_ _'ll walk, dammit. I didn't come this far to give up now. I'm gonna be in trouble when I get back, so I better make sure this was worth it. And when I find Bucky, I'm gonna get us_ both _home, even if I have to carry him across the whole of Austria._

He pocketed his broken transponder and took out his rusty old compass and map. Before he could save Bucky, he had to figure out exactly where he'd been dropped. It couldn't be _too far_ to the HYDRA factory, but it could be in just about any direction.

After a long moment of consulting his map, he picked a north-easterly route and set off into the night.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

It looked more like a maximum security prison than a factory. White beams from bright searchlights scanned the area around the high chain fence, the guard posts manned by HYDRA soldiers armed with a style of rifle Steve had never seen before. He'd had heard that Fort Knox was one of the most secure facilities in the world, but right now, he wasn't sure if Fort Knox held a candle to this place.

As he was considering his chances of climbing the fence without being immediately spotted and shot, a sound caught his attention. The quiet _chug chug chug_ of approaching engines grew gradually louder, and further down the dirt road, headlights cut through the foggy darkness. Steve wasn't usually the recipient of good luck, but he wasn't about to pass up an opportunity like this.

The vehicles slowed as they approached the compound's chain fence, and Steve waited until the last truck passed by his hiding place. Like the others, it slowed, and he dashed out from the forest and sprang over the raised tailgate, into the back of the truck… where two helmeted soldiers sat staring at him.

He froze. Then, with a casual nod, said, "Fellas."

They rushed him, perhaps believing that because they outnumbered him, they could take him down easy. But this wasn't a back alley, and Steve wasn't sickly little Steven G. Rogers anymore. He was Captain America, and he had a best friend to rescue.

He kicked the first soldier right at his solar plexus, and the man went flying into the side of the truck before dropping face-first onto the floor. The second guard slowed for a punch, his fist landing two on Steve's cheek before an echo of Bucky's coaching prompted him to keep up a defence. The next two blows landed were Steve's, and he didn't pull his punches. The second guard dropped, unconscious, and Steve tossed them both over the tailgate. They rolled a few feet along the muddy ground before they were swallowed up by the thick fog.

It was a simple subterfuge, but it worked well. The truck in which he hid was admitted through the security fence and finally came to a stop. He moved quickly as voices called out in German around him. Quietly knocked out a guard who appeared to unload equipment at the tailgate, and jumped out the back of the truck to set off across a tank-filled courtyard. He flitted from shadow to shadow, imagining that he was being quite stealthy.

A nearby concrete structure, perhaps a toilet block, promised a better view. Conscious of the spotlights, he timed his dash to a tank beside the building and scaled the outside of the vehicle, using it to give himself a boost up onto the low concrete structure. From there, he could see clearly where he needed to go. At a jog, he set off towards the small door at the base of the factory wall.

The door was a solid steel thing, and looked like it had been designed to withstand considerable force. He tried the handle, but it was locked. The Captain America of the movies would have kicked the door down, but Steve was still flesh and blood. Bereft of other ideas, he knocked.

He hadn't seriously expected to achieve anything by knocking, but for the second time that night, good luck favoured him. A guard on the inside slid back the deadbolt and peered out into the night. Steve reacted without thinking, slamming the door into the guard's head and finishing off with a punch to the nose. The man slumped to the floor and Steve hauled him out of the way. Once more, he marvelled at how his body could _do things_. Not just things regular men couldn't do, but also things they _could._

The scene that greeted him might've been one from any productive American factory—if it wasn't for the gun-toting guards in their strange helmets. Beleaguered prisoners hauled large crates around the floor, whilst small parts of larger items lay waiting on the production line. An eerie blue glow grabbed Steve's attention, and he crept towards one of the mysterious parts. It was comprised of smaller glowing blue… things. There were a lot of the glowing things, so they had to serve some sort of important function. Reasoning that the guards wouldn't miss one if it went astray, he slipped one of the glowing blue parts into the inner pocket of his jacket. Maybe Stark would know what it was.

Direction-less, he picked a nearby open door leading to a corridor and jogged down it, eyes peeled for movement, ears strained for whispers—or the sounds of a gun being cocked. But despite his concern about being discovered before he could find Bucky, the building remained ominously quiet, and he encountered no living soul hostile or otherwise.

The factory was a labyrinth of long corridors and small rooms. Every time Steve came to a room, he stopped jogging and carefully pushed open the doors to peer inside. Most contained large wooden crates holding more of the small parts which needed to be assembled. A couple turned out to be food stores; he tore into a packet of Kraut rations, some sort of heavy wafers, and shoved them into his mouth. Until seeing the food, he hadn't even realised how hungry he was. How long had it been since his last meal? Long enough.

He chewed on a cracker as he continued his search. Before long he heard the murmur of distant voices, and as he drew closer, his sensitive ears picked up familiar American accents amongst them. Excitement egged him on. Soon he was sprinting, uncaring of whether ran right into armed guards. Let them try to stop him—he'd fight them all!

Common sense finally grabbed hold of the reins, and as he approached a battered old door he slowed to a more stealthy pace. Finding Bucky was only half the job; he still had to get his friend out, and now he no longer had a working transponder to call for a ride. If he couldn't find some way to contact Agent Carter and Mr. Stark from here, he and Bucky would be walking back.

 _I_ _'ll dance back. I'll find Bucky, and get him to teach me to dance, and I'll dance us all the way home—if only I can find him._

Softly, Steve pushed open the battered door and peered in through the small crack. His spirits immediately soared. Inside the room were rows of iron-bar cells, each one containing small groups of men. They spoke in whispers and mumbles, a dozen different accents, not all of them American. Bucky would be here. He _knew_ it.

He crept into the room and climbed a ladder up to a metal gantry running over the cells. A single guard kept watch over the area. Steve ghosted up behind him, tapped the guy on the shoulder, then socked him hard across the jaw. The man went spinning, hit the gantry rail, and collapsed onto the top of the cell below. Steve crouched, reaching out to rifle through the guard's pockets whilst a half-dozen startled and dirty faces watched him open-mouthed from below. None of the faces were Bucky's, but that didn't mean anything. Bucky was just in some other cell. Steve would soon be reunited with his best friend, and he couldn't _wait_ to see the look on Bucky's face when sickly Steve Rogers saved his contrary ass.

One of the soldiers below, a dark-skinned man in a GI uniform, squinted up at Steve and asked, "Who're you supposed to be?"

"I'm Captain America," Steve replied. Internally, he cringed at the title, but it was better than saying, _I_ _'m some random nobody who's come to save his friend._

"What did he say?" a British man asked one of his fellow prisoners.

Steve's fingers brushed against the jagged metal of keys, and he pulled the bunch from the guard's pocket. Looking down, he caught the suspicious blue eyes of a wide-shouldered man in a bowler hat.

"Here, catch!" he said, dropping the keys through the bars. The imprisoned soldier didn't need telling twice.

While the man in the hat went about freeing himself and the rest of the prisoners, Steve jogged back to the ladders and climbed back down to floor level. To their credit, the milling throng of freed men didn't immediately run for the doors. Like good soldiers, they waited for intel. For orders. As they poured out of their cells, relief and guilt took their turns at assaulting Steve. He'd come here with only one thought: Bucky. If his transponder hadn't broken, Mr. Stark would've brought his plane back to whisk Steve and his friend away. But what about these other men? There was no way Stark's plane could've taken more than a few of them. The rest would've been left behind to make their way back through enemy territory, and it wasn't as if they were well-supplied. Some of them were injured; others looked half dead on their feet.

Steve would get them back. He made himself a promise, there and then, that he wouldn't leave a single one of them behind.

"Is this all of you?" he asked, as his gaze lingered over the dirty faces of the prisoners and failed to see Bucky. "Is there anybody else? I'm looking for a Sergeant James Barnes."

"Barnes?" The British man's eyebrows rose. "They took him away a couple of weeks ago, and we haven't seen him since."

Steve's guts twisted unpleasantly. A scene flickered across his mind's eye: Bucky, kicking and screaming and fighting as they dragged him away.

 _No._

"Any idea where they took him?"

"There's an isolation ward at the rear of the factory. It's where they take the sickest prisoners, and rumour has it they do medical experimentation of some sort."

"Bucky was sick?!"

The dark-skinned private nodded. "Looked like pneumonia. Sounded like it, too."

 _Pneumonia_. Steve had had it once, back in '29, and it had damn near killed him. But Bucky was fit. Strong. Bucky rarely got sick, and always hated it when he did, because it meant lying around being physicked instead of running around playing games and having adventures. No, pneumonia would not get the better of Bucky.

"The tree line is northwest, about eighty yards past the gate," he told the men. "Get out fast, and give 'em hell. I'll meet you guys in the clearing with anybody else I find." And if he didn't find anybody else—if he didn't find _Bucky_ _—_ then he wouldn't be leaving at all. He couldn't go home and tell the Barnes family that their son and brother was dead.

"Wait," the dark-skinned private said, halting him. "You know what you're doing?"

"Yeah. I've knocked out Adolf Hitler over two-hundred times." And besides, this factory kinda looked a little like the set of his first movie. Maybe he could make this a happy ending, too.

He left the men and jogged towards the door. As he left, he heard the British man call after him. "Nobody's ever come back from the isolation ward!" Steve ignored the call. All his life he'd been told what he couldn't do; nobody was going to tell him he couldn't save his best friend.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky's attempts to die were not going very well. Since his failed attempt to take his own life, they'd started feeding him again. His traitor body kept the food down, and a little of his strength returned. Not enough to give him chance to escape, but enough to keep him longer in the mortal coil.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes," he said to the ceiling. To himself. To God. To anyone who was listening. It was important they know that James Buchanan Barnes was still here. He didn't _want_ to be here, but he was.

It wasn't fair. Why couldn't they just let him die? Why couldn't they kill him off and perform their torture on some other soldier? It wasn't as if the cells were empty. A hundred men or more were put to work on the assembly lines, but Bucky alone had to be tortured. Why couldn't they put Dugan here, in his place? Why couldn't it be Dernier or Jones suffering, instead of Bucky?

He fixed his gaze on the tiny barred window and imagined he saw beautiful flashes of yellow and orange and red colouring the dark night sky. Imagined he heard booms and explosions, like the Independence Day fireworks he'd loved watching as a kid. A pity he wouldn't get to see any more fireworks.

He imagined, too, that he heard a siren. Some sort of warning alarm. Maybe a fire alarm, or an air-raid siren. The thought brought an oasis of excitement to the desert of his soul. Maybe Allied planes were about to bomb the factory and put an end to his misery. The idea of dying in an Allied attack was not as bad as the thought of being killed by Zola in some twisted experiment. Those fly-boys would be performing a service of mercy, if they managed to destroy this place.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes," he told the imaginary fires outside. "Service number—"

Footsteps interrupted his familiar litany. Heavy footsteps. _Guard_. Probably coming to make sure Bucky hadn't managed to die.

"Bucky!?"

A familiar voice jarred his memory; an unfamiliar face peered down at him from above. Was it God? Why did God sound like Steve? No, that was stupid. God didn't have a body. Didn't even exist. And if he _did_ exist, he wouldn't be sporting an army jacket and a helmet with a pair of goggle perched over it. No, not God. The face looked a little like Steve's, except bigger. More in proportion. Less nose, more chin. _Much_ more chin.

The face disappeared, and something brushed roughly against Bucky's arms and legs. The restraints. They'd just been removed. That meant he could finish what he'd tried to start.

The face reappeared, the Steve-stranger's eyes looking at him full of unfeigned fear while his lips spoke Bucky's name as if trying to summon him back from some distant place. "Bucky, hey Bucky, snap out of it."

Bucky ran his tongue over his dry, cracked lips and croaked, "Steve?"

Steve's familiar smile lit up the unfamiliar face. "Yeah, buddy, it's me."

 _Thank God!_ If this really was Steve, he could kill Bucky. Help put him out of his misery. Help him escape the pain and torture and experimentation. He spotted the gun in Steve's holster, and opened his mouth to ask for it.

"C'mon pal," Steve interrupted, "we've gotta get out of here."

 _Get out_? What? Where? There was no _out_. Didn't Steve understand that? There was no escape. No hope. Just an endless vista of agony.

A bright orange blossom lit up the night sky, sending light spilling into the lab. Seconds later, a thunderous series of booms shook the bed on which Bucky lay. Stranger-Steve's eyes went to the window, a grim smile pulling at his lips.

"Looks like the prisoners found HYDRA's stock of grenades." His blue eyes travelled down to Bucky's face. "Can you move?"

It took Bucky a full minute to realise that this _wasn_ _'t_ some sort of crazy dream. It wasn't an answer to a prayer, or some trick of his imagination. It was _actually_ Steve, and he was _actually_ huge, and _actually_ here. The wailing siren was real, and so were the explosions outside the window.

 _What the hell?!_

He gathered his strength and pushed himself up. Steve helped, one large, strong hand beneath Bucky's shoulder.

 _What the hell?!_

Upright, he gave his best friend from childhood the once-over. Then the twice-over. The eyes and the voice and the nose, that was all Steve, but the body… That was something new.

"What the hell?!" he demanded. A cheeky grin slid across Steve's face. "What happened to you?"

"I joined the Army!" Steve quipped. A shuddering explosion rocked the room, loosening plaster, sending dust drifting down from the ceiling above. The grin on Steve's face was replaced by a frown of worry. "C'mon, we gotta go."

Bucky tried his best to follow his tall new old friend, but the table had taken its toll. He wobbled on jelly-legs, his head pounding to the rhythm of each explosion. Steve returned to his side and threw one of Bucky's arms around his shoulders, taking up some of his weight. Bucky was in no mood to argue. They tottered past one of the workbenches, and as they did, something cold and metallic caught Bucky's eye. With a cry, he yanked himself out of Steve's grips and descended on the two strips of metal attached to a chain.

"My tags!" Proof that he really was Sergeant James Barnes, and not Subject 36. He slid them over his neck, then looked around the dark room. Maybe if they'd kept his tags, they'd kept his jacket, too.

"Buck, we gotta go," said Steve.

To prove his point, another explosion shook the walls. Swallowing his disappointment, Bucky nodded, reaching out once more for Steve's absurdly broad shoulders. Together they stumbled down the bare brick corridor, and Bucky felt a terrible weight lift from him. He was _free_. He was going to escape. To get back to camp. Maybe go home. See his family again. There would be no more table. No more torture. No more pain. He could leave this place, and leave it all behind.

"Steve, wait!" He jerked to a stop, and Steve jerked with him. "There are other prisoners here. We can't just go without them. We have to—"

"They're already free, Buck. That's how I knew where to find you. They told me you'd been brought back here."

It brought him a small measure of relief, a balm to his aching and tired soul. At least Dugan and the others wouldn't have to rot here under HYDRA's tender mercies. And now Bucky would get to watch Monty eat those PB&J sandwiches after all, just like Dugan had threatened.

"What _really_ happened to you, Steve?" he asked, as they continued their stumble. Bucky had no idea which way they'd brought him when he'd first arrived at the lab, but Steve seemed to have a pretty good idea of where he was going. He picked his corridors without hesitation.

"You've been with the SSR for a while now, right?" Steve asked.

"Yeah." It felt like forever. A lifetime of capturing bunkers and losing friends.

"You know what they've been doing?"

Bucky tried to shrug. Gave up when he realised it was futile to try with his arm around Steve's neck. "Sure. Designing new weapons, fighting HYDRA."

A grim smile stole across Steve's lips, and he fixed his gaze on the corridor ahead. "Yeah. Well, one of those weapons they designed was _me_."

"Bullshit," he scoffed.

"It's true. They had a doctor working for them, a guy named Erskine. He created a serum designed to enhance a person's physical and mental capabilities. They wanted to create an army of super-soldiers. HYDRA killed Erskine and destroyed the last vial of serum before it could be reproduced for anyone else." Bucky felt Steve's shoulders tense for a moment. "I'm all they got for their trouble."

"Then it's a good thing they got you," Bucky told him. "Did it hurt much? Becoming… well…" He waved his free hand up and down in front of Steve's body. "This?"

Steve's tone was wry. "Like hell. Felt like I was burning and freezing inside. Like my skin was trying to split right open, and needles were stabbing into my brain. It was only for a couple of minutes, but it's not something I'd recommend trying."

Bucky nodded absently. The pain Steve had gone through sounded a lot like what Zola had put Bucky through. But if that pain had lasted only a couple of minutes, then he was one lucky S.O.B. Gettin' turned into a super-soldier sounded much more pleasant than being experimented on for new chemical weapons.

"Is it permane—"

Another series of loud explosions cut off Bucky's question before he could finish it. When he looked at Steve, he saw the unease he felt inside etched on his friend's face.

"Escape now, talk later?" Steve offered.

Swallowing his fear, Bucky nodded. Yes. Escape now would be _very_ welcome.

They continued their graceless stumble as the distant battle raged on. Voices cried out orders in German and English, and the ghosts of a dozen other firefights came back to haunt Bucky as he lurched slowly to freedom.

The echoing sound of footsteps up ahead forced them to a halt. Bucky could _feel_ Steve tense, his muscles bunching and tightening. The owner of the footsteps rounded the corner and morphed into a familiar figure. Colonel Lohmer's face was a maze of scowls and frowns which only deepened when his eyes fell on the pair of escapees. Bucky reacted on instinct. Grabbed Steve's pistol from his holster, thumbing off the safety as he lifted the weapon and pointed it at the man who'd tortured Bucky long before Zola had come along.

Lohmer's reaction was almost as immediate, but Bucky was a split second ahead of him. He pulled the trigger three times, each bullet finding its mark in Lohmer's chest. The man fell backwards, eyes fluttering closed as his ruined chest ceased to rise and fall. Breathing hard, Bucky put the safety back on the gun. _God, that felt good!_ Vengeance, not just for himself but for all the men Lohmer had beaten and starved and worked to death. Their ghosts could rest easy, and Bucky could live with the knowledge that Lohmer would never leave this place to continue his brutal cruelty.

"Buck…" Steve's eyes were full of things Bucky hadn't seen in a very long time. Horror, reproach, disapproval… the things that were quickly stamped out of a man on the front lines.

"It's war, Steve," he said, handing back the pistol. "And that bastard had it coming."

Steve accepted the gun, and gave him a look that said, _we_ _'ll talk about this later_. Well, that was fine. If Steve wanted to talk about how shooting Nazis was the right thing to do, Bucky could talk his ear off. Or, better yet, Colonel Phillips could do it. Or Agent Carter. That way, Bucky wouldn't have to tell Steve about all the friends he'd lost, and see the pity in his best friend's eyes.

They hit the gantry above the main factory floor just as another rocking explosion hit the building. Below, machinery was engulfed in fireballs, and stones from the ruined walls flew across the length of the room, deadly projectiles if they managed to hit a man.

"Did you do that?" Bucky asked, gesturing at the pandemonium below.

Steve's frown returned as he shook his head. "No, but there goes our escape route." He glanced up, taking in the rest of the gantry system, and pointed to a door set higher on the other side of the wide room. "We should be able to get out that way. I saw a ladder leading down from it when I was looking for a way in."

"Another story you gotta tell me when we're in a better place." This new Steve Rogers was just full of surprises.

The stairs were very nearly the death of Bucky. His legs ached, his feet ached, his lungs ached, and every time something in the factory exploded, he felt it in his head, like it was his own brain exploding. Once or twice Steve looked back and slowed, ready to offer his shoulder, but Bucky waved him off. HYDRA had tried their hardest to break him, and he suspected they probably _had_. But he wasn't so broken that he couldn't escape from their torture-house under his own steam. He would _not_ be carried out like some damsel in distress. He could do this on his own. He could save himself. Wells had taught him that.

"Captain America!"

Steve slid to a halt as a familiar voice yelled over the booming explosions, and Bucky very nearly slid right into Steve. Captain _what_?

"How exciting!" the voice called again. Its owner appeared on the steel gantry on the opposite side of the room, a tall man in a long dark coat. Bucky reached out to grip the gantry handrail in front of him, his fingers tightening around the cold metal. Anger ignited within his stomach, bubbling like a lava pit. _That voice_. It was the voice that had whispered in shadows with Zola. It was Schmidt.

The head of HYDRA handed a large briefcase to a shorter man, and Bucky's fingers subconsciously tightened even further. _Zola!_ The evil doctor was dressed for escape in a long brown coat and a surprisingly ordinary hat. If Bucky hadn't known who and what the doctor was, he could've passed him on the street and never looked twice.

"I am a great fan of your films," Schmidt continued. Bucky shook his head. _Films_? No. That was stupid. He was obviously mishearing things. Schmidt had clearly mistaken Steve for somebody else.

The German man stepped forward, walking at his ease across the metal bridge which spanned the width of the room, seemingly unconcerned about the violent explosions directly below. His large, crazy eyes were fixed on Steve's face in a way that made Bucky wish he had a rifle in his hands. Never before had he seen such a look of pure greed.

"So. Doctor Erskine managed it after all." As if hypnotised by the man's words, Steve stepped out onto the bridge and walked until he reached the halfway point. Bucky wanted to follow him, to back him up, to be there for his friend, but he suspected if he let go of the rail, he might fall over. He might have found some second wind, but it wasn't a particularly strong one. "Not exactly an improvement," Schmidt taunted. "But still… impressive."

 _Steve, ignore him!_ Bucky thought to his friend. _He_ _'s stalling for time. He doesn't want us to get away. He wants us to go down with this place._

Steve didn't hear Bucky's silent plea. Instead, he drew back his fist and hit Schmidt square on the jaw. The punch was a little sloppy, but it was thrown with enough force to send Schmidt staggering back by a pace. HYDRA's head rubbed his cheek with one gloved hand.

"You got no idea," Bucky heard his friend growl. Wait, Steve _growled_ now?

"Haven't I?"

Bucky saw Schmidt's punch coming… but so did Steve. No longer the slow, weedy, back-alley scrapper of yesterday, he lifted the gaudy shield he was carrying and used it to block the incoming blow. Schmidt's hand struck like a toll of the bell, leaving behind an imprint of his fist in the metal. Bucky winced at the imagined pain, but Schmidt barely blinked.

The pair on the bridge erupted in a flurry of motion. Steve reached for his pistol; Schmidt knocked him back. The gun went flying out of Steve's hand before sliding over the edge of the bridge and disappearing into the fires below. Schmidt advanced; Steve kicked out, both feet—God when had his feet got so _big_?—connecting with the German's chest. The man went flying back by ten feet or more, and Bucky found a different kind of respect for his best friend.

A blur of sudden movement on the periphery of his vision caught Bucky's eye. Zola made a grab for a lever on his side of the bridge, and with a mechanical groan the steel structure began moving, separating at its midpoint and pulling Steve and Schmidt away from each other. A heavy, sinking feeling settle in Bucky's gut. That bridge had been their escape route.

Schmidt didn't seem too pleased about the premature end to the fight. He stood snarling as the bridge whisked him far out of striking range.

"No matter what lies Erskine told you, you see I was his greatest success!" Schmidt's voice oozed with fervent self-righteousness. He reached towards his face with his gloved hand and grasped at something with his fingertips. Slowly, methodically, he peeled his face away, and Bucky would've hurled everything in his stomach if there had been anything still in there. What lay beneath the mask of skin was a blood-red, nose-less sinewy skull.

Jeez, if that Erskine guy's serum had done _that_ to Schmidt, what had it done to Steve? Bucky glanced at his best friend's back.

"You don't have one of those, do you?" he asked.

"You are deluded, Captain," said Schmidt. "You pretend to be a simple soldier, but in reality you are just afraid to admit that we have left humanity behind." He tossed his mask of skin over the gantry, and the flames enveloped it as it fell. Together with Zola, he strode towards a nearby door—an elevator, Bucky realised. "Unlike you, I embrace it proudly. Without fear!"

"Then how come you're running?" Steve called.

There was no answer. The elevator door slid closed. As both Germans disappeared from sight, Bucky made them a silent promise. They would pay. For everything they had done, for every needle they had stuck him with, for every cry of pain they had pulled from his lips, for every tear that had leaked from his eyes and every plea to let him die, they would suffer a thousand times over. And when they knew what _true_ pain really felt like, he would do to them what he had done to Lohmer. He would make sure they could never hurt anybody ever again.

A particularly violent explosion shook the factory. Steve made a grab for the rail Bucky was already clinging to, his eyes darting around the collapsing structure as he searched for another way out. "Come on, let's go," he said, gesturing to a door above them as if he _hadn_ _'t_ just seen a guy pull his face off. "Up."

Bucky swallowed the million questions he wanted to ask. This wasn't the time for questions. It was the time for escape, and long overdue.

They clambered up another fight of stairs, whilst all around them the building shook. It was all Bucky could do to stay upright and keep moving. And each time his friend hung back for him, he mentally cursed himself for not being fast enough. He'd lost too many friends in this war; he couldn't lose Steve, too.

There were no more stairs. They stopped at the highest gantry level. A dead end.

"Across there," said Steve, pointing at a narrow metal girder. His face was sweaty, charred with soot. Reminded Bucky of the time he and Wells had blown up a Nazi munitions factory and almost got caught in the blast wave. "C'mon, one at a time. You first."

Bucky was too exhausted to argue. He knew the girder was no thinner than the wooden beams he'd balanced along at boot camp, but suspended above the fiery room, it looked _impossibly_ narrow.

 _C_ _'mon, Barnes, you can do this,_ he told himself. _You_ _'ve done HYDRA bunkers and collapsing mines and tank-baiting… this isn't any worse than those things._ Except, he hadn't been in agony and exhausted when doing those other things.

He took a step up—with Steve's help—and slowly edged his way out along the girder. The factory continued to rock. Bucky purposely didn't look down at the flames beneath him. He focused on the distant rail. One moving one foot in front of the other. On getting home one day, and seeing his family again.

Several large explosions rocked the girder, and it wailed out a high pitched, metallic groan. He knew he didn't have much time left. As the girder shook more violently, he picked up his speed, practically running the last few feet. The girder slid away from its hold on the other side of the gantry, and Bucky put every ounce of strength he could gather into a swift jump. He hit the rail and couldn't stop the quiet whimper escaping his lips as his lower ribs were smashed against the hard metal. _Man up,_ he told himself. _What_ _'s a little more pain?_

He hauled himself over the rail and clung to it. His body demanded rest, but he couldn't rest yet. Not while his best friend was still over the other side with no way to cross.

Defeat was etched over Steve's face, and it made Bucky's heart ache painfully to see it. Steve, who'd never once backed down from a fight, who'd bounced back to his feet each time he was knocked down, who saw every obstacle put in his path as a personal challenge to be overcome, had given up.

"There's gotta be a rope or something," Bucky called, scanning the area for something. _Anything._

"Just go," Steve called back. "Get out of here!"

"No!" He screamed pent-up defiance into his words. "Not without you!"

And if Steve Rogers thought Bucky was gonna leave his best friend to die in some collapsing inferno, then Bucky was just gonna have to find a way back to the other side and teach Steve a thing or two about what being best friends really _meant_.

Steve probably realised Bucky wasn't gonna leave him. He looked frantically around, then reached forward to— _with his bare hands!_ —bend part of the railing back to allow an open path to Bucky's side of the room. He got that look on his face, the same look he'd worn when staring up at Coney Island's Cyclone roller coaster, right before Bucky talked him to getting on it. That, _I_ _'m about to do something real stupid that I know I'm gonna regret_ , look.

Bucky's heart leapt into his mouth as Steve backed up. He was gonna jump. The crazy S.O.B. was _actually_ gonna try to jump _the entire width of a factory._ Bucky prayed that the doctor who'd tinkered around with Steve's inner working had maybe stuck a bit of tiger in there, too.

Steve ran. He leapt. He soared. Bucky held his breath. Somewhere far below, something large and probably important exploded in a spray of metallic dust. The shockwave hit Steve from behind, adding new momentum to Steve's inertia, flinging him through the air. No longer soaring in an arc, he spun out of control before slamming into the wall behind Bucky. He fell onto the gantry with a pained groan.

"Steve!" Bucky rushed to his friend's side. If he had to carry Steve out of this place, it really _would_ be just like old times. "Are you hurt?"

"Think I cracked a rib," Steve huffed. His face scrunched up in pain as he pushed himself to his knees. "Maybe two."

"Can you—"

Another explosion cut off Bucky's words. The look on Steve's face was all the answer he needed. This place was going down, and they had to get out before it did. Even if they had to crawl on hands and knees.

Steve managed to wince his way to his feet. At least the stubbornness hadn't been scienced out of him. "Come on, follow me. I can get us out from here."


	69. Evergreen

We Were Soldiers

 _69\. Evergreen_

The star-strewn sky was alive with flames, a beacon that would be seen for miles around. Of Schmidt and the other guy with him there was no sign, but that didn't mean they weren't preparing some nasty new surprise. As the factory behind him screamed its death throes into the night, Steve grabbed Bucky's arm once more and practically hauled his friend along the ground to the nearby clearing. They found countless dozens of men waiting, some in uniform, others wearing only civilian clothing. And men weren't the _only_ thing in the clearing. How the heck had they got their hands on a tank?

"Barnes?! I don't believe it." The man in the bowler hat and a group of his fellow prisoners ran over to Steve and Bucky as they limped their way forward. Bucky stood a little straighter and tugged his arm back from Steve's shoulder as the group dashed up, but that was Bucky all over; stubborn as an ox.

The man in the hat slapped Bucky hard on the shoulder, damn near sending him sprawling, while the others clustered around with beaming smiles. Steve stepped back, allowing them their reunion with a twinge of jealousy. Even now, there were things Bucky could do that he couldn't. Bucky could walk into a room full of strangers and, within minutes, call them friends. Guys or dames, Bucky had a way with people that made them instantly like him.

"I swear," the man continued, "if you were a cat, you'd be on your ninth life by now."

"Well, I know how work-shy you are, Dugan," Bucky quipped. "Somebody has to continue the fight."

"What the devil happened to you in there?" the British man spoke up. "Are the rumours true? Are they working on new biological weapons?"

Bucky took a half-step back, flinching as if struck. He swallowed, then shook his head. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Right. Of course."

"So, Captain America," a short, Japanese-American soldier said as he eyed Steve, "what now?"

A tired grin lit up Bucky's face, a twinkle of humour sparking in his grey eyes. For a moment, Steve saw his childhood friend beneath the soot and pain and despair. " _Captain America?_ _"_

Steve cleared his throat. "That's a long story. Right now, we have to get away from this place before reinforcements arrive."

Bucky nodded, then gestured to the others. "Guess I better introduce you to my cellmates, first. Sergeant Dum Dum Dugan and Private Gabe Jones"—he pointed to the man with the hat and a dark-skinned soldier respectively—"were with the SSR too. Private Jim Morita got here just before us, along with a group from the 6th Ranger Battalion." This was aimed at the man who'd asked what to do next. "Major James Falsworth, who's a member of the Royal family—"

"What? I'm not—never said—" the major spluttered.

Bucky grinned. "And Jacques Dernier, French resistance."

"Bonjour," the Frenchman grinned with a perky salute.

"Steve Rogers, pleased to meet you," he said, shaking their hands in turn.

"Thanks for the rescue, Captain," Dugan said. "What are your orders now?"

"Well, I'm not technically a Captain." Probably best to be honest with them from the start. "I'm not even sure I'm a real Private." They stared at him as if he was mad. "So, err, if Major Falsworth wants to give the orders—"

"After you infiltrated a high security enemy stronghold and destroyed an entire building with your bare hands?" Major Falsworth asked, in a Britishly dry tone. "I wouldn't dream of it."

He looked around at their tired, sooty faces and realised he probably didn't look much better. His jacket had took a singeing in the blast that had cracked a rib or two—the pain already fading, thankfully—and his face felt itchy with dust and sweat. But he'd come here when nobody else had been willing, had opened their cages and given them a chance at freedom. Now, they were looking to him to finish what he'd started. Bucky gave him a small nod of encouragement, and that was all he needed.

"I have a map," he said, pulling it from his pocket. "We can get back to Italy on foot, but we're gonna need someone to scout ahead and make sure there aren't any nasty surprises waiting for us."

"I'm your guy for that," said Private Morita. "I'll gather a few of the Rangers. You pick your path, and we'll make sure it's safe."

Steve handed him the map with a grateful nod, and the man trotted off to find more soldiers from his battalion.

"Is everybody here capable of a long march?" he asked.

"Most, but not all," said Major Falsworth. A frown pulled down his dark brows over his narrow face. "Some are too injured, others too exhausted." He clapped a hand on Sergeant Dugan's shoulder. "Fortunately for us, Dugan was able to commandeer a tank. The worst of the men should be able to ride it for most of the journey… assuming it doesn't run out of petrol en route."

"Tout le monde ici n'est pas de l'armée. Il ya des gens du pays, aussi," said Dernier.

Private Jones provided a quick translation. "Yeah. He says there are locals here, amongst the soldiers. Not everyone will want to come with us. Lots of these folks will have homes and families to get back to."

"Then I guess we'll let the locals go their own way," Steve nodded.

"I'll pass the word around," said Jones. "I speak a little German."

"And I'll gather the wounded and get them safely onto the tank," said Major Falsworth.

Sergeant Dugan patted the rifle he'd taken off some downed foe. "And while everyone else is busy with logistics, I'll round up the men who've found themselves new toys to play with, and see if we can organise some sort of defensive guard. No point being sitting ducks while we travel, right?"

The group broke up, wheels set into motion. Confident they'd soon be underway, Steve turned back to his best friend. Out here, by the light of the blazing factory, Bucky looked even worse than he had strapped to that table. His skin was an unhealthy ashen grey colour, and his eyes seemed devoid of all happiness. He held himself tense, as if he ached but didn't know exactly _where_ he ached, and thanks to his sensitive ears Steve could hear his friend's breathing wasn't exactly steady.

"Hey, if you want a spot on that tank, just say the word," he offered.

Bucky eyed the vehicle with open hostility. "I would rather crawl back on my hands and knees than sit on that thing."

"Alright. But you look like hell."

His friend merely nodded. "Don't worry about me. All I need is a good night's sleep and a hot meal. I'll be fine."

"You don't have to lie to me, Buck. I don't know what they were doing to you in that room, but you were pretty out of it."

"Like I said. Bed rest and a hot meal. Get me that, and I'll be good for another thousand miles." Bucky's defiant glare dared him to keep arguing.

"Alright. But stick close to me, okay?"

"Just don't walk too fast."

Steve gave a quick nod of agreement. He didn't care how slowly they walked, as long as he could get Bucky back safe and sound

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky sat in the shade of a dark green conifer tree, watching the sun slowly peep over the horizon. Sometime between being taken prisoner and being rescued by Steve, Fall had truly set in. The sun's light spilled over the dense canopy of the forest… but it wasn't a perfect canopy of green. The deciduous trees had turned yellow and brown, their sickly-looking leaves dying one by one. He knew just how they felt. Since being strapped to Zola's table, he'd felt parts of himself twist and warp and die off, replaced by hollow emptiness. He, too, was some withering yellow-brown thing, too cold and tired to hang on to the tiny bits which were dragging him down. Compared to the needled conifers, the deciduous trees looked frail and weak.

People should be like conifers, he decided; tall and evergreen. They shouldn't fade away with the changing season. They should grow all year and live forever in rich emerald hues. They should dance and sway in the wind, and not have to worry about winter's snow. It wasn't fair that people grew old and sick and withered and died.

Steve appeared to the sound of quiet footsteps, returning from the patrol he'd taken it upon himself to perform whilst the rest of the weary company rested. He lowered himself to the ground beside Bucky, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the resting men.

"Did you get any sleep?" Steve asked quietly.

Bucky nodded his lie. "A little." Every time he closed his eyes, he found himself in a dark room, on a cold bed. Though he'd fallen into sleep a couple of times, he'd been jolted awake, tears rolling down his cheeks. Part of him still couldn't believe he was free. That there would be no more experiments. No more injections. No more pissing into a bucket. No more German opera.

Part of him feared to sleep in case _this_ was some beautiful dream. In case sleeping was really waking, and the dream was snatched from him.

"You wanna talk?" Steve asked.

He shook his head. No. He didn't want to talk. Not about what had been done to him. Not about what he'd tried to do. Not about how he'd tried to put a bullet through his own head, and not about how he would've gladly stuck anybody else on that table in his place. His gaze fell on Dernier, sleeping nearby, and a dizzying wave of guilt flooded his mind. Good men, all of them, and he'd _prayed_ for one of them to be put on the table in his stead, just to spare him the pain. He didn't deserve to be here with them. He didn't deserve to be free.

"My family probably think I'm dead," he mumbled, as the thought hit him. Steve had told him how long he'd been in that factory. The letter would'a been sent long ago.

"The letter of condolence might not've reached them yet," Steve offered, ever the optimist. "When you get back to camp, you can write them. Tell them you're okay."

Tears burned in his eyes at the thought of his mom's shaking hands opening the envelope that she _knew_ held bad news. Her cries as his dad tried to comfort her were daggers to his soul. His fault, again. He deserved to die, for the things he'd thought on that table. For trying to end his own life. For thinking, _let it be someone else._

"Hey, don't worry, Buck. You're safe." Steve's hand fell gently on his shoulder, and Bucky scrubbed his sleeve across his damp eyes before wincing at the rising sun.

"I know." He bit his lip between his teeth, using pain to force the tears back. "Tell me about what happened to you. Full details."

"Really? Now?"

Bucky nodded. "Troops need their rest." And it might distract him from his darker thoughts, if only for a short time.

Steve let out a slow, deep breath. "Alright. But like I said, it's a long story."

"I got time."

Time was about the only thing he _did_ have left, and he sat silently feeling time pass as Steve told his story. Meeting Doctor Erskine at the Expo. How he'd almost gotten arrested for falsifying his form. How he'd met Agent Carter, and been tormented constantly by a recruit named Hodge. Finally, Bucky found something to smile about.

"What?" Steve demanded at his friend's grin.

"You're never gonna believe this, but Hodge is with the SSR." The grin promptly slid. "Or… he was. At Azzano. I ordered him to fall back, along with a few others from the 107th. Dunno whether they actually made it back to camp."

Steve grasped his shoulder again. "You'll find out soon enough, pal. Is Hodge still…"

"Hodge?" Bucky chuckled. "Yeah. Though, he's not as Hodge-like as he was when he first joined us. I think we… I mean, I think he's picked up a bit of humility. But continue with your story. Obviously you got picked for the experiment at the end, but how?"

Steve continued with how impressed Erskine had been with his performance. Not as a soldier, but as a man. He told about the experiment, how Stark had funnelled power from the local grid into the building to operate the Vita-ray generator—the name tickled at something in Bucky's mind, but he couldn't think why—and how Steve had flinched at an injection of penicillin. Bucky managed a dry chuckle at that. Steve had never been a big fan of needles.

When he came to telling how Dr. Erskine had been shot, Steve's voice became thicker, choked up with emotion. Bucky didn't try to offer words of comfort. Despite having known the doctor for only a short time, Steve had clearly come to care for and respect the guy. Bucky knew how that was. You knew people, you became their friends, and then they died. It wasn't fair.

Steve moved swiftly on. Regaled Bucky with tales of the USO tour. And the comics. And the movies. He then made Bucky _promise_ to never watch those movies. Lying through his teeth, Bucky agreed.

"And then I got the word I could come out and perform on the front lines," Steve said at last. "Flew out to Sicily, did a couple of shows and spent far too much time wandering around looking for you. When we reached mainland Italy and met up with the SSR, Agent Carter told me what had happened at Azzano." Bucky smiled again. Not because of Azzano, but because Steve's ears went pink whenever he mentioned Agent Carter. It wasn't the first time Bucky had spotted it, and now he suspected that the guy from the Project that Agent Carter had been sweet on was none other than Captain Steven G. America himself.

"So, Colonel Phillips sent you to rescue us?" Bucky asked, when Steve fell silent. Probably thinking about Agent Carter; his ears were still pink.

"Not exactly. We, err… we stole a plane. Though I guess it's not technically stealing. It was Stark's plane, and he was flying it. We started taking flak, and I had to parachute the rest of the way."

"You jumped out of a plane for us?"

"I jumped out of a plane for _you_ ," Steve amended. He ran a large hand through his short hair. "I didn't know how many men had survived Azzano and been taken prisoner. My first thought was to find you and get you out. I hadn't really planned on what to do if I found more prisoners. I don't think I'd make a very good Captain outside of the movies."

"I think you're doing fine," Bucky told him, mustering up some conviction and lacing it into his words. "I'm glad you ignored my advice, and went and did something stupid after all. Well, multiple stupid things, really. Phillips might make you a real private just so he can court-martial you."

"It was worth it." Steve smiled and cleared his throat. "So. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Got any stories to tell?"

He shrugged. How could he explain about Tipper and Weiss and Carrot and Wells, and all the others, to someone who hadn't been there? Anything he could say about them would only paint them as pale reflections of the men they'd truly been. "Nothing you couldn't hear from listening to any random soldier talk about the war. Lots of bad food, lots of shooting Nazis, lots of waiting around."

The skeptical look on Steve's face suggested he didn't believe him, but Bucky was saved from having to tell his best friend that he didn't want to talk about it—again—by the arrival of Falsworth. The British man advised Steve that more of the troops were waking, and that they should probably set off before the _Luftwaffe_ got lucky and spotted the exhausted men and their purloined tank. Steve nodded, and sent Falsworth off to rouse the rest of the sleeping men. As he stood, he brushed the dry pine needles from his trousers.

"I don't know what's gonna happen when we get back to the SSR's camp," Steve said, looking down at Bucky from above. From this angle, he looked even larger. "If you wanna talk about anything before we get back and I get thrown in some cell, just shout my name. You're not alone anymore, Buck."

He watched Steve trot off towards Morita, and wished he could believe that sentiment. Although he didn't doubt that Steve would be there for him in a heartbeat, Steve hadn't been on that table. Steve didn't know what Bucky had been through. Steve could _never_ know what Bucky had been through, because if he found out that his best friend had tried to throw in the towel before the end of the fight, he would never trust Bucky again.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky shivered and gripped the rifle in his hands more tightly, trying to send the shiver into the gun before it could take over his whole body. Steve hadn't been thrilled when Bucky demanded to take a turn at keeping watch with the rest of Dugan's 'guards', but there hadn't been much he could do about it, either. Bucky could walk—just about—and he was still one of the best marksmen in the bunch. Dugan had found a jacket for him, one that was a couple of sizes too big, but it helped. A little. Offered meagre warmth from the fall air. Helped to hide his shivering.

Several times over the course of the day, the shakes had come on strongly. Each time, he found a way to mask them: stopped to retie his boot lace; pretended he needed to water the trees; fell back to stare at the trail behind them, as if afraid of being followed. Each time, Steve's eyes tracked him. Glad as Bucky was for the rescue, and to see his best friend again, the over-protectiveness was starting to grate a little. He'd spent the past five months looking out for himself and his men; he didn't need mothering.

He'd managed to avoid talking for most of the day. Falsworth had found him in the morning, asked how he was doing, whether he needed anything. Bucky had offered a few gruff rejoinders, and Falsworth had finally got the message and left him alone. Whenever Bucky's gaze fell on the faces of the men around him, he saw them screaming, crying, tortured and twisted. He saw them as he'd imagined himself on that table; broken. And _he_ _'d_ put them there, with his desire for an end to the pain. He didn't deserve their kindness.

By late afternoon, it was all he could do to keep his feet moving one in front of the other. He was no longer walking but shuffling, a weary trudge of hunger and exhaustion. That might've brought Steve running with concern, save for the fact that Bucky wasn't the only one trudging. Some looked ready to drop there and then. Part of him wished they _would._ If one man collapsed from exhaustion, others could. If two or three went down, Bucky could finally give in to the need to rest. He just couldn't be the first to go.

Maybe the others felt the same. Perhaps they fed off each other's defiance. Each time one of the flagging men stumbled, he looked around, his face etched with guilt, and squared his shoulders before soldiering on. Soon, it became a competition: who could walked straightest for longest after stumbling. It was a competition Bucky was determined to win.

"Hey, Buck!"

He glanced ahead to where Steve was standing at the front of the narrow column, gesturing for his friend to join him. Summoning strength from his dwindling reserve, Bucky bade a silent farewell to his fellow trudgers and stumblers, and jogged forward, dog tags jangling reassuringly against his chest.

"What's up?" he asked, trying not to pant with exertion from the pathetically short jog.

"Private Morita just told me he caught sight of the camp, over the next ridge." Steve's gaze swept the crest of the hill ahead. "Thought you might want to be the first to step foot into it."

"Yeah. Can't wait to see the look on Phillips' face when you show up with all these men." Bucky fell in beside Steve, and they marched in silence for a while; Steve apparently lost in some deep introspection, Bucky focused on working deep breaths of air into his lungs. God, if he started shaking now…

"I'm glad I got to march beside you, even if it was just for a day," Steve offered at last. He glanced at Bucky from the corner of his eye. Probably thought he was being surreptitious. He was a bit big for surreptitious, now.

Bucky let a genuine smile pull the corners of his lips up. "Me too. And I'm sorry I doubted you. Should'a known you'd find a way to get out here. Just didn't expect it to be through some Frankenscience experiment."

When Steve stiffened, he knew he'd said the wrong thing.

"Is that what you think I am? Some sort of monster?"

Bucky's mind went back to Schmidt. To the peeled-off face and the red skull beneath it. "No," he lied. "It was a dumb thing to say. I'm exhausted and wasn't thinking straight. Forget about it."

The expression on Steve's face said he didn't want to forget about it. That Bucky's comment had hurt more than any back-alley punch. But at that moment, they crested the hill and looked down at the camp sprawled below them. It was huge! When Bucky had left, camp had comprised of the troops of the SSR and the remnant of the 6th Ranger Battalion. Clearly, that had changed.

They began their descent down the muddy trail. As the column of men approached, sentries cried out warnings. Men appeared from the tents, then flooded toward the camp gates. Bucky forced his back straighter. Forced his hands to grip his rifle more casually. Forced his feet to pick up higher and his legs to take longer strides. A metal, anti-vehicle barrier was lifted, and they marched along a path lined with cheering soldiers. Bucky scanned their face and found only strangers. Their uniforms displayed the shoulder sleeve insignia of a half dozen different regiments; but where were the 107th?

Their march took them straight to the heart of the camp, where men clustered around, patting the newcomers on the shoulders, welcoming them back from the hell they'd lived in. When Colonel Phillips and Agent Carter approached, both pairs of eyes fixed on Steve, Bucky stepped back. His mind registered Steve surrendering himself for disciplinary action and Colonel Phillips hand-waving away his insubordination, but his gaze was busy jumping from face to face, looking for someone, anyone, familiar.

His hand began to shake. He closed his eyes and _willed_ it to stop. When he opened them again, he found Steve watching him in that _motherly_ way. He could tell his friend was about to say something, so he shouted, "Let's hear it for Captain America!"

It was all the soldiers needed to throw up a loud cheer and crowd in closer to the man who'd disobeyed orders and saved their companions. The crowd pressed in, and Bucky shuffled back. A familiar voice reached his ears as he looked for a place to sit out his shakes.

"Sarge!" Gusty's face appeared, and Bucky blinked back tears. Thank God Gusty had made it! Behind him was Biggs, and they hurried through the throng to envelope Bucky in a rib-crushing group hug. "We knew you were still alive!" Gusty said. "We knew you'd come back."

Finally, Bucky gave in to exhaustion. As he slowly sank to the ground, Biggs lifted him back up. Concern danced in Gusty's watery eyes.

"Hospital, now," he instructed.

Bucky spotted the chevrons on Gusty's sleeve, and offered a feeble salute. "Yes, Sarge."

They chivvied him through the crowd—Biggs waded through first, physically moving people aside—and straight to the hospital tent. There, Nurse Klein offered him a dimpled smile and a rib-crushing hug. "Sergeant Barnes! We knew you'd come back. Oh, but you look terrible! Lie down here, right this moment."

She hauled him onto a bed whilst Gusty pried the rifle from his hands and set it aside. Nurse Klein prodded and poked him with gentle efficiency, and Bucky closed his eyes, swallowing his rising fear over being on his back again so soon.

"Gusty," he said, hunting for a distraction, "you got promoted?"

He opened his eyes to Gusty's nod. "Biggs too."

"Corporal," Biggs rumbled.

"Congratulations, both of you!"

"They only did it 'cos they ran out of Sergeants," Gusty replied. "And losing you, so soon after losing Wells… it's not like they had anyone else to promote. I don't think I make a very good sergeant, though. The men don't listen to me like they did to you."

"You do a fine job," Nurse Klein scowled at him.

Gusty's cheeks flushed red, and he ran a hand through his brown hair. "Err, we umm, saved your stuff. Biggs, go get his stuff."

Biggs hurried out. Nurse Klein noticed Bucky's shaking and fetched him two blankets, which she laid over him as if he was some sickly kid. "Are you hungry?" she asked. "I could get you some milk and cookies. Warm milk, even, if you fancy it."

"You're an angel, Nurse Klein. I'd love cookies and milk." Audrey dashed off to raid the hospital stores, and Gusty perched himself on the edge of Bucky's bed, taking care not to dislodge the blankets.

"What happened, Sarge? You look like hell."

The cold hand of dread squeezed his stomach unpleasantly. He could look at Gusty without seeing his face contorted in pain, but that didn't mean he wanted to talk about what he'd been through. He just wanted to forget all about it and move on.

"Your Audrey could teach the Krauts a thing or two about hospitality. That's all," he said lamely. "How have things been around here?"

Gusty allowed the change of subject to stick. He offered an unhappy shrug. "Could be worse, I guess. I think everyone feels a bit lost, especially since Phillips got most of his authority taken away by some brown-nosing Colonel with a direct line to Patton."

"How many made it back from Azzano?"

"Not enough." Gusty's eyes clouded with anger, as they always did when he spoke about men they'd lost. "Me and Biggs. Mex, Hodge, a few others."

"Tex?" Gusty shook his head. "Damn."

"Yeah." The corporal—no, _sergeant_ _—_ reached out to toy with a stray thread on one of the blankets. "Mostly, we didn't know who'd died. I guess now that you and some of the others are back, we'll finally know who didn't make it back from Azzano. I only know about Tex because I saw him get hit. He was covering our six, took a bullet to the neck. Nothing I could've done, even if I'd gone back."

"You did the right thing," Bucky said quietly. "You saved as many as you could."

"I know. But it still doesn't feel like enough."

 _Welcome to being a sergeant._

Biggs returned with a cardboard box which he thrust into Bucky's hands. "Your stuff." When Bucky pulled off the lid, he found the personal contents of his footlocker neatly packed away. The letters he'd written to his family. The packs of smokes he'd been saving for barter. Half a bar of chocolate, still neatly wrapped in its foil. His pen and ink bottle. He spotted the spine of an Army Editions book, and reached in to pull it out.

 _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn._

"I never did get chance to read it before Azzano," he mused. "But I thought you put left books back into the library?"

"Yeah, but I know how much you wanted to read it. Besides, it wasn't borrowed. Wells bought it outright. It's yours."

"Thanks, Gusty." He clasped the book and set the box down on the table beside him so that he could thumb idly through the pages. He'd thought all of Wells had been lost when Zola ordered his jacket to be torched, but at least there was still the book. And now, he'd finally have time to read it.

"Here we are," said Nurse Klein, trotting back in with a mug of milk and a plate of cookies. "I'll get one of the kitchen staff to bring you some proper food at dinner time, but this should keep you going for now."

Bucky didn't need inviting twice. Nurse Klein set the cookies on the blanket across his stomach, and he took a long, deep drink of the hot milk. As he nibbled on the cookies—he wanted to shovel them down, but didn't think his deprived stomach would appreciate the rapid addition of so much sugar—the three of them regaled him with events from the past month. The missions they'd been on, the groups they'd met up with… the men they'd lost. Four cookies in to their catching up, Steve appeared. The worried frown melted into a smile when he spotted Bucky.

"I take my eyes off you for five minutes and you find yourself the comfiest bed in camp," Steve quipped. "I would've looked for you here first, but I know how much you hate hospitals."

"Guys, this is Steve Rogers," Bucky said, as Steve joined them at the bed. "Brooklyn's biggest pain in the ass. Steve, meet Corp—I mean, Sergeant Paul Ferguson, Corporal Frederick Biggs, and Nurse Audrey Klein." Steve went through the obligatory round of handshakes and 'pleased to meet yous.' The tops of his ears were pink, which meant he'd probably just come away from talking with Agent Carter. "I hear you avoided a court-martial?"

Steve gave a quick nod. "Phillips told the rest of the brass that he'd ordered Stark to drop me over enemy lines so I could try to rescue the prisoners from Azzano. I guess if we hadn't made it back, he would've reported that it was all my own idea and he ordered me _not_ to do it."

"He covered your ass," Bucky told him. "I think he only _pretends_ to be a crotchety old miser."

Steve smiled, his gaze flickering down to the book abandoned on Bucky's blanket in favour of cookies. "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn?"

"You've read it?"

"Yeah." Steve reached out for the book, but Bucky snatched it quickly before his friend could pick it up. No telling how much damage Steve's big new hands might cause to the delicate paper pages. "It's about—"

"Don't tell me! I wanna read it for myself."

"Alright, sorry." Steve backed up, his expression unreadable. "I'll go find Kevin, he'll probably wanna yell at me for running off. I'll come visit you again in a couple of hours… if that's okay, I mean."

"Yeah, of course."

When Steve disappeared, Bucky put his half-eaten cookie back on the plate. Suddenly, he wasn't so hungry.

"Kinda snappy, don't you think, Sarge?" Gusty said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"I guess." A deep sigh escaped his lips. "It's just… strange, having Steve here. All his life he wanted to be a soldier, just like his dad. I don't think it's hit him yet, what war is really like. When I look at him, I still see that eager kid from Brooklyn who hauled me down to the enlistment line the first time he tried to join up. He just feels out of place, here." When he realised he sounded maudlin, he said, "It's probably just me."

"Probably," Gusty agreed. "But why don't we let you get some rest, for now? No offence, but I've seen healthier looking corpses."

Bucky didn't argue. He hadn't caught sight of a mirror yet, but he could picture exactly what he looked like. A withered and brown tree, devoid of the beautiful summer leaves which gave it life.


	70. America's New Hope

We Were Soldiers

 _70\. America_ _'s New Hope_

"Are you sure you oughta be up and about so soon?" Steve asked as he followed Bucky through the camp. His friend had been released from the hospital and now wobbled his way towards the 107th's barracks with his box of personal belongings in his arms. Steve had offered to carry them, because even after a night of food and broken sleep, Bucky still looked pale as a corpse and unsteady on his legs, but Bucky had merely said, _"They're mine,"_ before setting off into the crowd. The words had hurt; Steve couldn't remember Bucky being possessive before. He'd always been a sharing kinda guy.

"Doc Peacock said I just need some rest," Bucky called over his shoulder. The crowd parted, men nodding and smiling at him, clapping him on the shoulder, telling him how good it was to see him again. Bucky thanked them, but kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead. "And Audrey's got better things to do than run around fetching cookies for me all day. Besides, if you stay in the hospital too long, they make you give blood. We—I mean, I, learnt that the hard way."

Steve didn't bother arguing. The camp's senior doctor had seemed more concerned with freeing up beds for emergencies than making sure Bucky was fit and healthy. The guy had given Bucky only a cursory examination before diagnosing exhaustion and malnutrition. Soon after, the rest of the injured POWs from the HYDRA factory had been brought in, and Bucky actually seemed _glad_ that the doctor wasn't taking care of him anymore.

Beds were not easily come by. Steve had spent the night in a bedroll in the hospital, sleeping on the ground beside Bucky's bed. Thanks to the serum in his blood, he didn't need as much sleep these days, so he'd lain awake well past midnight listening to Bucky's fitful mumbles. Every so often, Steve's friend would jolt upright, eyes wide and panicked, skin slicked with sweat, as if torn from some terrible nightmare.

The first time Steve had offered him comforting words, Bucky had scowled at him, snapped, "I'm fine," and rolled over onto his other side, turning his back to Steve and tugging the woollen blanket roughly over his shoulders. For a split second, the look in Bucky's eyes had reminded him of that moment in the Krausberg factory when he'd shot a German colonel without warning or call for surrender. Steve was slowly coming to realise that the friend he'd freed from the cold metal table was a harder man than the one who'd offered him a heartfelt farewell and a jaunty salute at the Stark Expo five months ago. In all the ways that counted, he was Bucky. But he was also different.

"Will you at least let me give you a hand carrying that stuff?" Steve asked, decreasing his stride so that he didn't get ahead of his tottering friend. All of Bucky's personal effects were in that box—save for his book, which was peeping out from his jacket pocket.

"No need, it's not heavy. Mostly just letters and stuff." Bucky attempted a smile, but it didn't come easy. "Gusty said he's evicting the guy who took over my bed. Hope nobody's sore about me coming back."

Steve's response died on his lips as he stepped around the corner of a tent and walked straight into a very familiar figure. Gilmore Hodge was shorter than Steve remembered him, and the man's lips twisted up into a sneer as soon he recognised Steve. Then, Bucky turned the corner, and the sneer faded to a more general frown.

"Sarge, it's good to have you back," said Hodge. And Steve was _gobsmacked_ , because it sounded like Hodge _actually meant_ the words coming out of his mouth.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, then deflected the topic elsewhere. He'd done that a few times, since getting back to camp. "Thanks. Steve here tells me you and he go way back."

"Oh. Err. Yeah. That. The Project. Way back." Hodge glanced at his boots, his hands, the sky, even the faces of other soldiers around him. Anything, it seemed, to avoid the topic of Steve. Made sense. By now, there probably wasn't a single person in the whole camp who didn't know who Steve was, or what he'd done. People hailed him as a hero, even though he'd only wanted to do the right thing. Hodge had spent a whole week telling everyone in the Project that Steve would never amount to anything. Now, he was being forced to eat his own words.

Steve felt something stir within his chest. It felt suspiciously—and oddly—like pity. Five months ago, he would've given anything to see Hodge brought down a peg or two, especially if it was of his own doing. Now, _he_ was the bigger guy. The stronger guy. The fitter guy. Gloating over Hodge's discomfort made him feel a whole lot smaller. He opened his mouth to offer an olive branch, but for the second time that day, Hodge surprised him.

"So. Rogers. Guess I owe you an apology. I was kind of a jerk to you, during the testing. Didn't think you'd make it this far, but you've done okay." Bucky aimed a not-so-subtle glare at Hodge, prompting the man to offer his hand. "I still think I would'a been the better choice, but you're not the failure I thought you'd be. Glad you're on our side."

It was the most backhanded compliment Steve had ever received, but he accepted it and shook Hodge's hand. Squeezed maybe just a _little_ tight. Enjoyed the man's pained wince just a _tiny_ bit. "No hard feelings."

"Right. Well. I gotta go to the pit. Catch you later, Rogers. Sarge."

Hodge brushed past, and just when Steve was about to say to Bucky, 'Was that _really_ Hodge?', the guy turned around and called, "Hey, Rogers?"

"Yeah?"

One corner of Hodge's mouth pulled up into a grin. "Your boots are still stupid." And with that he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

"Ignore him," Bucky said. "Your boots show off your shapely calves."

That did it. He was _definitely_ getting some different boots.

The inside of the 107th's tent was rather dark when Steve followed Bucky inside. Their arrival heralded a cheer, but it was all for Bucky. Dozens of men flocked 'round to clap him on the shoulder and offer him heartfelt greetings. Bucky endured it with a wan smile fixed on his face. He didn't seem glad of the attention, which was another thing that had changed in the last five months. Bucky had always enjoyed being the centre of it.

Sergeant Ferguson appeared to bring a little order to the milling crowd. He cleared a path for Bucky to a bed near the centre of the tent, and Steve followed them. The few glances he drew were guarded, as if the soldiers here didn't quite know how to respond to having Captain America in their midst. Or perhaps they simply saw him as a stranger, a man who didn't belong because they'd all worked hard and sacrificed to get where they were. Did they see him as a charlatan because his own progress had been handed to him in a vial?

"Biggs and Mex are out on a recon," Ferguson was saying. "They should be back for dinner. Here we are; we even brought you some fresh bedding. The guy living here for the past month had really bad B.O. Can't tell you how glad we are to see the back of him."

"Where is he now?" Bucky asked.

"We sent him to bunk with the 9th."

Steve watched on as Bucky unpacked the contents of his box, transferring them to the footlocker. When he was finished, he sat down on his newly made bed and brought the book from his pocket, toying with it. Other soldiers in the tent were similarly ensconced in books and letters home and small poker games.

"So, what now?" Steve asked.

A puzzled frown crept over Bucky's face. "Whaddya mean?"

"What do we do now? What happens next?"

"Now I write a letter to my folks and tell them I'm not MIA or KIA after all. Hope that my letter has even a small chance of beating the official letter of condolence."

"That's a shame, Sarge," said Ferguson, a few beds over. "I wrote some real nice things about you that I'm sure your family will appreciate. Err, well, maybe not as much as they'd appreciate you not being dead, of course."

Bucky winced. "Thanks, Gusty."

"But what happens in terms of… you know… the war?" Steve pressed. After all, the war hadn't ended just because he'd done what he'd set out to do. Bucky was back, but the Nazis, and HYDRA, had not gone anywhere. "There must be missions for us to go on. Battles for us to…"

Bucky and Sergeant Ferguson were sharing a very bemused glance. Steve felt his cheeks flush with heat. He probably sounded like a fool to the men who'd spent the past five months fighting on the front lines.

"Now," said Ferguson, "we wait."

"For how long?"

Bucky shrugged. "Hours? Days? Weeks? This is war, pal."

Steve sank down onto the bed beside Bucky—it groaned beneath their combined weight—and ran his hands through his hair. He'd thought that _sit and wait_ was something limited entirely to the USO, but if the whole army followed the same M.O., how could they ever expect to win the war?

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

As promised, the doctor came to Rosa's house to check up on Danny's shoulder. Danny had no memory of the wrinkled old Italian man, but the doc seemed to know what he was doing despite the fact he didn't speak a word of English. He arrived just before lunch time, and Rosa immediately chivvied Danny up to the bedroom so the physician could get to work.

Although he was used to moving his arm by small increments to put on his shirt, the doctor moved it into whole new positions as he unwound the bandage around the gauze. It wasn't long before a sheen of sweat slicked Danny's skin, and he was glad Rosa had insisted he sit on the bed for this. Pain lanced through him, arcing across his shoulder and up his neck. If he'd been standing, he thought his legs might've given way.

The gauze was pulled away, and when Danny saw how much blood had crusted on it, he almost fainted. Seeing some other guy's blood was one thing; seeing your own was so much worse. It wasn't right. Nobody should have to see their own blood.

When he glanced down at his shoulder, the feeling of nausea and dizziness intensified.

"Do not look," Rosa said, though she was managing it just fine.

Danny ignored her. His shoulder was a mess. Raw tissue scabbing over. What looked like a flap of skin hanging loose. Where it wasn't torn, the skin was shrivelled, as if drying out and slowly dying.

 _I_ _'m lucky. It's a mess, but at least my bone stopped the bullet. If it'd gone through me, my shoulder would've been twice as bad at the back._

The doctor said something, and Rosa quickly translated. "He wants you to try lifting your arm."

So he tried. Shirtless, sweaty, hurting, he managed to move it all of half an inch.

 _Pathetic._

"Do you think I'll ever be able to use my arm again?" he asked Rosa, who asked the doc.

"Maybe, if the bone knits well where it was cleanly broken, and if the muscles are given a chance to heal before they are put to heavy use. You should do nothing more than small movements for another month. After that, I will come back, and we will see."

 _A month?!_ That would take him into December. The snow was already starting to pile up against the side of the house; in another month, it would be too deep to wade through without snow-shoes. He couldn't wait that long! He had to get back, to fight the… war. Only, he couldn't fight. Not with his arm like this. Shoot a pistol, maybe, but he wasn't left handed, and even if he was, no CO in his right mind would send a man so injured out on a mission. Not even on a recon.

His heart shuddered, gripped by an unseen icy hand. If he went back now, with a million-dollar wound like this, he'd be discharged. Sent back to the States. Away from the front lines. Away from Barnes. Injured as he was, he'd need help. Couldn't even tie his own shoelaces. But he had nobody to help him, not like Rosa did. Nobody to feed him and help him dress and mother him in that awkward, bossy way. Danny would be forced to go home. To the house he'd grown up in. To the parents he hated and feared.

No. He couldn't do it. He would have to stay here until he got well enough to fight again. And if that meant putting up with Matteo's glares, so be it. At least he could handle being glared at by a stranger. It was better than being tormented by people who were supposed to care about him. Spring. He would give himself until the snows of winter melted. By then, he'd have full use of his arm again. He could go back to the fight. Back to camp. Besides, he had a promise to keep. Barnes had said his birthday was in March. Danny didn't know when in March it was, but they had an agreement. They would celebrate his birthday in March, then they would celebrate Danny's birthday on 4th July. Didn't matter how they celebrated. Cake in a foxhole or a night out in Milan, all that mattered was having fun in some way. Any way.

He gritted his teeth as the doctor poked and prodded around the entry wound in his flesh. Bit back his whimpers when lightning bolts of pain flared within him. Finally the doctor seemed satisfied. He redressed Danny's shoulder and gestured towards the over-large shirt on the bed.

Danny picked up the shirt and gingerly redressed himself as Rosa and the doctor went downstairs to have a light lunch. The sight of his shoulder, looking for all the world like a piece of butchered flesh, had put him right off the idea of food.

He tried not to imagine the worst as he buttoned up the shirt, but he'd spent his whole life mastering the art of thinking in grim, fatalistic and dark thoughts, imagining the worst outcomes, readying himself for the fall so that it wasn't so much of a shock when it came. In his mind, he was already accounting for the loss of all use of his right arm. He'd be scarred, badly so. Three months ago, that would've been okay, because scars were a dame-magnet. He could've used a gripping tale about his war injury to his advantage.

Now, he didn't want to be scarred and broken. He had enough of that going on on the _inside_ ; he didn't need it on the _outside_ , too. He didn't want people looking at him as a cripple. Pitying him. Seeing him as something _less than._ Less than whole. Less than perfect. Less than a man.

Rosa found him an hour later still toying with his buttons, his mind swimming in a fog of depression. He'd looked ahead and seen how his life would be. People offering to carry his bags because he couldn't carry them himself. Friends making jokes, not realising how deeply they cut. Turned down for work back in civvy life, because who wanted somebody flawed when they could have somebody perfect?

"You are fortunate to have your arm," Rosa said. Her words cut through the fog, pulling his gaze to her face. She did not look particularly sympathetic. "At one point, whilst he was removing the bullet, the doctor feared he might have to amputate."

A violent shudder racked his body. He hadn't realised his situation had been that bad. Remove his arm? Then he truly _would_ be a cripple.

"I don't know how to function as less than whole," he said.

"Is that how you see yourself?" When he didn't respond, she stepped forward and sat down beside him, the mattress dipping with the added weight. "These friends you have mentioned in your stories. Davies, and Gusty, and Carrot. If it was one of them in your place, believing that he was less than whole, would you just accept that?"

"I guess not." It was a reluctant admission. Such self-pity would've required a serious ass-kicking. Thinking of it that way didn't help, though. There was only one person who'd ever tried, and succeeded, at pulling Danny out of the dark places he made for himself, and that person might as well be all the way across the other side of the world.

"Good." Rosa stood, and pulled him to his feet with his left arm. "Now, I have vegetables that need chopping for dinner. You can still chop, can't you?"

He sighed. It seemed Rosa, like Barnes, wasn't gonna write him off so easily. "Yeah. I can chop."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Peggy wiped the smile from her lower face as she stepped into the command tent. Colonel Phillips looked up at her approach, and she suspected he saw the smile despite its absence.

"You sent for me, Colonel?"

"I sent for you half an hour ago, Agent Carter," he said, drawing glances from some of the other staff who'd taken up residence in the command tent.

"I'm sorry, sir, but Howard was at a critical stage of construction and required an additional pair of hands."

"Doesn't he have assistants for that? I'm fairly sure he has assistants. I have two men on the SSR's payroll whose sole purpose is to provide assistance to Stark in whatever form required."

Peggy straightened up, trying to aim for an additional inch of height. "He claims they're incompetent and… well, I shan't repeat his language; it was rather foul."

"Hmph. Well, maybe we can do something about that."

"Sir?"

"Take a walk with me, Agent Carter."

Recognising Phillips' desire to speak without having a half-dozen other colonels eavesdrop on his conversation, she fell in beside him as he led the way out of the tent and along a muddy thoroughfare towards the motor pool. For a long moment they walked in silence, and a tide of soldiers on their way to the mess tent for dinner parted around them. Peggy glanced over their faces, just in case Steve was in the crowd. He was still a little uncomfortable around the troops, still a little wide-eyed and unsure. It was, she had to admit, just a little bit endearing.

"We've been recalled to England," Phillips said, snapping her out of her guilty thoughts. "We leave in two days, and we'll be taking the men rescued from Krausberg with us… along with the USO show folk."

Peggy's heart skipped a beat, and she mentally cursed it. Whenever Steve Rogers was around, she felt like a schoolgirl in the flurry of her first crush. It was ridiculous, really. She was a grown woman. Had once been engaged to be married. And yet, Steve's smile quickened her pulse in a way that Fred's never had. She very much feared that she might be falling for Steve Rogers, which was… well, it was poor timing, for a start. This was war; she couldn't allow herself to be distracted by affairs of the heart, no matter how much the heart wanted it.

"We're being pulled off HYDRA's trail?" she asked, clearing the mental image of Steve's smile from her mind.

Phillips' face twisted into a grimace. "Not exactly. Seems top brass want to speak to Mr. Rogers—" the smile immediately came back "—about that factory. Intel he gained. Maps he saw. Technology he stole."

"Surely they don't need him to do that in person?"

"It's not just that." Phillips glanced around, then lowered his voice. "Kauffman thinks he's close. He wants to consult with Stark."

"Ah." A wry smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "So, that's the _real_ reason we're heading back to England. Steve's intel is just a cover."

" _Steve?_ " One of Phillips' eyebrows lifted in question. "We're on first-name terms, now?"

"I call Howard by his first name. Sir."

He gave a grunt of reluctant defeat. "I'll leave you to organise the men who'll be coming back to England with us."

"Of course." Just before the motor pool, they stopped. Peggy decided it was the right time to bring up the _other_ thing on her mind. "I'm worried about Sergeant Barnes. _Mr. Rogers_ says they were experimenting on him." And he looked like hell. Somehow, he managed to look even worse than he had that time Nazi spies poisoned him.

In truth, he'd been off even before Steve brought him back from Krausberg. In the days before Azzano, it seemed as if he was merely going through the motions of being a soldier. For the first time since the start of the war, his stare had reached a thousand yards. Now, though, his stare was so close that it was actually turned inward, as if everything he saw was in his own mind, rather than the world around him. Peggy had seen the horror in Steve's eyes, as he'd told her about pulling Barnes off the lab table… and now she worried that he might finally have broken.

"We'll get him, and the others from Krausberg, checked out when we reach England," Phillips agreed. "We'll probably send them all home, Barnes included. They've been through a lot."

Peggy merely nodded. Sending Sergeant Barnes home might not be as easy as the Colonel made it sound. For one, she was fairly sure that Steve Rogers wasn't ready to say goodbye to his friend again so soon.


	71. Blighty's Shores

We Were Soldiers

 _71\. Blighty_ _'s Shores_

"Do you think we'll see you again, Sarge?" asked Gusty.

Bucky finished dumping the last of his belongings into a box—only 48 hours after he'd last unpacked them—and turned to face his gathered friends. It hadn't taken long for word of the SSR's withdrawal to spread, and most of the 107th had heard about it before Bucky had.

He had mixed feelings about leaving Italy. On the one hand, he and the others from Krausberg would get some much-needed rest and recovery. But that meant the 107th was being split apart. Those who'd been taken hostage at Krausberg were going to London with the SSR, whilst those still fighting-fit were being merged with what was left of the 6th Rangers and 69th Infantry under the command of Colonel Hawkswell.

He knew that, in all likelihood, the majority of those taken prisoner at Krausberg would be sent home for R&R until they were well enough to be rotated back out. Not Bucky, of course, because he was just fine and didn't need to go home, but some of the other guys were in bad shape. For the first time since reporting for duty at Last Stop USA, Bucky would be officially apart from the rest of the 107th. And of those who were staying here, on the front lines… he might never see them again.

"Of course you'll see me again," he bullshitted. "A bit of English cuisine and bed rest and I'll be back out here in the middle of it. After all, someone's gotta help you keep these goons in line."

The goons in question were Biggs, Mex and Hodge, along with a few others who'd come to say goodbye to Bucky. They loitered in the barracks tent, watching him pack his life into a box. It was a pathetically small box.

"What do you think the SSR will have you doing?" Mex asked.

Hodge snorted. "Probably shining Captain America's boots."

"I still can't believe you're best friends with Captain America, who turned out to be the tiny guy from the Project, Sarge." Mex offered him an easy grin. "Y'know, my Mama says everything happens for a reason, and I think this proves it."

Bucky bit his tongue. Everything happened for a reason? Not a chance. That meant there was a reason why Bucky had been tortured for weeks by HYDRA. There was a reason why Tipper and Carrot and Wells and all the others had died. Bucky just couldn't believe it.

"Don't forget your promise, Sarge," said Gusty. "You're gonna deliver that speech at my wedding, right? When the war's over?"

"Of course. You've got the address of my folks back home. Send me an invite, and I promise I'll be the best best man you could ever want."

It was a hug-filled goodbye. First Gusty, then Biggs, followed by the others. Each hug lasted exactly three seconds, because everybody knew three seconds was the limit on guys sharing hugs. Bucky didn't mind, though; it was so rare for them to be able to say goodbye to a comrade without digging a hole that he would've happily accepted more than three seconds, if needed. But he didn't wanna make the fellas feel uncomfortable.

"You want me to carry your bags, Sarge?" offered Biggs. "Leave your hands free for your box?"

"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks."

In the end, Biggs carried his duffel bag, Gusty grabbed his pack topped with his sleeping roll, and Mex picked up his rifle, bandolier and helmet. With his box clasped in his arms, Bucky led the small procession out towards the waiting wagon. Steve, Dugan, Jones and the others from Krausberg were already packed and sitting on the uncomfortable wagon benches, and three other wagons came before them in the convoy. With the Luftwaffe still being a nuisance in the skies above Italy, Phillips had decided to return to England by boat, and Bucky was anticipating a long, bumpy ride to whatever port they'd be departing from.

"Took your time, Princess," said Dugan. A wide grin split his face. "And you even had these fine gents to carry your bags."

Bucky ignored the taunt. He wasn't in the mood for banter. Not today.

His friends handed up his bags into the wagon, and Bucky turned back to face them. These were men who, if it weren't for the war, he would probably never have met. Men who'd lived and laughed and fought by his side. He'd lost so many friends already, and there were no guarantees these men would see the end of the war. Perhaps it was a good thing he was leaving. This way, he wouldn't have to write any more condolence letters.

"It's been an honour, Sarge," said Gusty. He jumped to salute, and the rest followed suit.

"Take care of each other," he told them. "Remember, you're family. Brothers in arms. Never forget that."

"We'll see you again, Sarge. At the victory celebrations, if not before."

Steve reached down to give Bucky a hand getting into the wagon, and Bucky found himself practically lifted right off his feet. Big Steve was taking a hell of a lot of time to get used to.

"Y'okay?" Steve asked.

"Sure. Fine." Bucky brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, wiping away any errant moisture. Sure, he was a bit emotional, but he and the guys from the 107th had been through a lot together.

"Alright. Just checking."

When the convoy started moving, Bucky realised they'd been waiting for him. The wagons rolled out of camp, and the small group of soldiers still holding their salutes grew smaller and smaller. Bucky watched until they disappeared from view, then turned his gaze to the dim interior of the wagon. He didn't know what was going to happen next, but at least he wasn't alone.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The chill breeze of the English Channel made Bucky's eyes stream. He stood at the fore of the ship, dressed in as many layers as he could find, and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, which he held closed against his chest with one freezing hand. His teeth chattered, but he did his best to ignore the cold. On the horizon was a thin sliver of brown. _England._

Again.

"Hey."

Steve's boots clunked heavily across the open deck as he joined Bucky at the rail. Unlike Bucky, he was dressed only in his uniform and the bright orange life jacket the crew made everyone wear on deck. Bucky had escaped the life jacket by borrowing a page out of Wells' book and bribing the sailor on door duty.

"Hey," Bucky returned. The brown was getting larger. Why did everyone say England's shores were green, when really they were brown?

"Kinda cold out here, isn't it?"

Bucky shrugged. He was freezing, but he wasn't going to miss this for the world. The first time he'd sailed to England, Wells had told him they'd see Dover for its white cliffs. They hadn't seen Dover, because they'd actually ended up in Plymouth, but the SSR was heading to London, and Carter had assured him they would see Dover on the way.

"Wanna go dancing when we get to London?" he asked.

"C'mon, Buck, you know I can't dance."

"First time for everything."

"I think first, we should get you checked out." Bucky fought back a sigh as Steve continued. "I'm worried about you. You look pale, you're quiet, and you've not been eating."

Bucky pulled his face as the memory of two weeks at sea came rushing back. "I've had my fill of nautical cuisine. If you really wanna see me back to my old self, you'll get me something real to eat as soon as we hit dry land. Stew with dumplings as big as my fist. Or a fine cut of steak, if there are any cows left in England."

"Ship food isn't that bad." Steve grinned beneath Bucky's withering stare. "Okay, okay, it's bad. Guess I don't have much of a choice. My metabolism runs so fast that I need double the calories just to be up and walking around. Mr. Stark said he's working on a new type of army ration for me. He claims it's seventy-five percent fat."

"Whatever he makes, it'll probably taste better than what they're serving here," Bucky assured him.

"I hope so. Anyway, I'm gonna go for a walk to the back of the ship, stretch my legs. Wanna come?"

"Aft."

"Huh?"

"The back of the ship is called the aft."

"Oh, right. Guess I've still got a lot to learn." Steve gave him a gentle elbow nudge. "Good job I've got you here to teach me."

Bucky rolled his eyes. Ever since they'd left camp, Steve had been going on and on about how much he needed Bucky around. Bucky knew loads of stuff Steve didn't. Bucky knew how to talk to Phillips without pissing him off, and how to put the troops at ease, and how to pack writing supplies into a backpack so that the inkwell didn't spill over everything.

He knew what his friend was trying to do, because Bucky himself had done it back when he and Steve had been kids. _How do you solve this equation, Steve? Wow, Steve, your tips for my history report really paid off, I got my first A! I_ _'d've failed calculus by now, if it wasn't for you._ And whilst those things had been true, Bucky had purposely laid it on thick, especially when Steve was feeling down in the dumps.

"I'm fine," Bucky said, trying to weight his voice with as much conviction as he could manage. "I just wanna enjoy the sight of England."

"Alright. Well, come find me if you want company."

"I will."

Steve left, and Bucky continued gazing at the horizon. What was it Wells had said? _We_ _'ll sweep into London with our roguish good looks and wild frontier charm, go dancing every night before we're posted…_

How young and naïve they'd been. It was only five months ago, and yet it felt like it belonged to some whole other life. A life before he knew about death and loss and killing. A life in which war had been an adventure first and a responsibility second.

It was a shame Wells couldn't be here to see Dover, and London. To go dancing every night with pretty dames, even if that had been complete bullshit. He'd bigged the city up so much that Bucky could imagine him standing on deck, describing all the fun they were going to have.

When he got to London, he would have a drink for Wells. And one for Tex, and Hawkins, and Carrot and Tipper… one drink for every friend he'd lost.

With a quiet sigh, he leant forward against the cold metal rail. He was going to need a lot of drinks.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky's first view of London was not from a ship, but from a wagon. According to the crew, ships weren't allowed up the Thames right now, so they disembarked at Dover and transferred to the roads. He found himself wedged between Steve and Falsworth, being bounced around on the potholed roads.

"Don't you people ever fill in the potholes?" Dugan grumbled as he was thrown against Dernier. The Frenchman uttered a string of colourful French expletives.

"In case you hadn't noticed, we've been rather preoccupied for the past five years with the small matter of defending the entire free world single-handedly against the rampaging Nazis," said Falsworth. "There seems little point filling holes in the roads when the _Luftwaffe_ is so determined to make new ones every night."

"He's got you there," Morita said with a chuckle.

London was everything Bucky had imagined, and nothing like what he'd expected. Its partially cobbled roads and grand architecture were muted by a layer of grey soot. Every window was framed by blackout curtains waiting to be employed, and no brightly painted signs adorned the doors above the local businesses. Street vendors pushed rickety wooden carts, and the people who walked the streets wore cloths in dull greys and browns. Bucky's mind was immediately transported back to fifteen years earlier, when financial austerity had been a cold, hard fact of life. Bucky's family had weathered the Great Depression, but not every family had been so well off.

"Place needs a lick of paint," said Dugan, his blue eyes assessing the city buildings around them. He anticipated Falsworth's response even before the British man opened his mouth. "Yeah yeah, I know: there's no point painting when the Nazis are hellbent on kicking your toys over."

The wagon stopped outside a tall building bearing a simple sign which said _Strand Hotel_. Just as Bucky was about to call out in question to the driver, a pair of heels clicking along the sidewalk heralded the arrival of Agent Carter. Her gaze swept over the men in the back of the wagon and lingered a fraction longer on Steve's face.

"Gentlemen, welcome to your temporary home." From one pocket she produced several folded sheets of paper, and passed them around the men. "Here are your room listings. The Strand Hotel is one of the finest in London, and as representatives of the United States Armed Forces, you are expected to be on your best behaviour. That means no fights, no rowdy behaviour, no bringing back women, and no vomiting all over the carpets if you foolishly spend your scrip on getting sauced. Anybody who cannot follow these simple rules, or anybody bringing the SSR's name into disrepute, will swiftly find themselves relocated to standard army barracks. Is that understood?"

The men offered a chorus of "Yes ma'am." Finally satisfied, Carter lowered the tailgate and allowed them to disembark with their bags. She left them in the care of the hotel concierge, a bald man wearing an impeccably pressed hotel uniform. He cleared his throat as they lined up outside the door, and Bucky realised for the first time exactly how dirty and bedraggled he and his fellow soldiers truly were. Italy and the HYDRA workhouse had taken their toll, and being aboard a ship for the past five days certainly hadn't helped matters. Steve had foolishly attempted a saltwater shower, but Bucky had known better. As a result, he smelt a little ripe.

"My name is Mr. Chipperton," the man offered. "On behalf of all at The Strand, I would like to welcome you to our hotel, and thank you for your participation in this war. If you would like to follow me, I will show you to your rooms. Oh, don't bother about your bags," he said, when he saw them all reach for their possession, "the bellboys will bring your belongings to your rooms."

As if on cue, a swarm of uniformed young men poured out the front door and descended on the bags. Bucky's first instinct was to growl a warning at the man who made a beeline for his duffel bag, but nobody else seemed bothered by it. _Relax, Barnes,_ he told himself. _This isn_ _'t Krausberg. Nobody's gonna take your stuff and try to tell you you're not a person. You'll get it all back._

Besides, most of his stuff could be replaced. It was standard G.I. gear, and some generic writing equipment. Everything important, he carried on his person. His dog tags, which proved he was a real person and not some numbered experiment, were around his neck. The letters he'd received from home over the past few months were packed tightly into one inside pocket, and his—Wells'—copy of _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ was tucked inside the other. He carried a pack of smokes for trade, and a bar of chocolate for when he needed a moment of sweetness to remind him of the things life was worth living for. His tiny can opener was affixed to the ball chain of his tags, and he carried a small switch blade along with a Zippo in a hidden pocket of his jacket. Five months ago, surviving with only the contents of his duffel, backpack and belt pouches seemed an impossibility. Now, the duffel, backpack and belt pouches were a luxury.

He tagged onto the back of the line of men filing into the hotel behind Mr. Chipperton. As soon as he stepped into the lobby, his mouth fell open. Everything here was elegant architecture, gold foil and intricate brocade. This hotel would not have been out of place in the swankier districts of New York. In fact, Bucky had been to Broadway theatres less ritzy than this.

"You'll all be housed on the third floor," Mr. Chipperton was saying. Bucky looked up at the impressive crystal chandelier suspended above his head, and had never felt so out of place in his life. "Rooms are single, and each has an en-suite shower. Should you prefer a soak in a tub, the men's bathing room is on the lower-ground floor; please ask a member of staff to show you the way. A cooked breakfast is available in our dining room from seven o'clock until nine thirty. Prompt dining is recommended, as our kitchens are understandably busy."

The man stepped forward, through the lobby and into a spacious, carpeted reception area. A grand staircase stood at the back of the entrance hall, with elevator doors on either side.

"As London's premier hotel, we possess all the modern conveniences, including lifts and indoor plumbing. We offer room service for a nominal fee, and have a full bar on site for those who prefer being entertained within close proximity of their rooms. We also have an arrangement with a local taxi company to provide discounted transport for our guests; please enquire further at reception."

They followed Mr. Chipperton up to the third floor, and he began to call off names and room numbers from some invisible list in his head. "Major J. Falsworth, room six. Private G. Jones, room seven. Mr. J Dernier, room nine. Private J. Morita, room twelve. Sergeant J. Barnes, room thirteen—" _Unlucky thirteen_ _… great._ "Sergeant T. Dugan, room fifteen. Mr. S. Rogers, room sixteen—"

"I think you mean _Captain_ Rogers," said Jones.

Mr. Chipperton raised one eyebrow and withdrew a list from his pocket. His grey-eyed gaze danced down the page as he scanned what was written. "Not according to my records. Moving on: Private P. Kirklees, room eighteen."

Bucky's former cellmates looked to Steve, whose cheeks turned decidedly pinker as he shrugged. "Like I told you, I'm technically not a Captain. I'm barely even a soldier."

"I've heard a lot of bullshit in my life," said Dugan, elbowing Bucky in a very meaningful way, "but that just about takes the cake. I don't care whether you've got gold or silver on your collar, or chevrons or stars. As far as I'm concerned, you're worth two of any other captain I've met."

"Hear hear," Falsworth agreed.

"Wish I hadn't left my pompoms back in the internment camp," said Morita dryly. "Or I'd lend them to these guys."

Dernier rambled off a sentence in French and pointed to the doors.

"I think he just said, 'Why are you jackasses just standing around here when we could be showering right now?'" said Bucky.

Dugan grinned and stepped aside with a dramatic flourish of an imaginary cloak. "Make way for his royal highness, the Princess Barnes."

"Jackass," Bucky scoffed as he pushed past the rest of the gathered men.

The room was nice. A single bed had been made up with fresh linens over a generously thick doona. When Bucky sat on the bed, it sank several inches beneath his weight. The pillow covers and comforter had a floral scent about them… lavender, he thought. It reminded him of the lavender sprigs his mom used to put underneath their pillows and inside the cupboard drawers. Hell, she still did it now, so determined to see Bucky and his siblings as kids despite the fact they were almost all grown up.

He kicked off his boots and lay back on the bed. It was so new that the springs didn't creak as he shifted. Not for the first time, his thoughts went to home. He'd written his parents a letter after returning to his regiment's tent, following his discharge from the hospital, and had handed it in for morning post the very next day. He'd filled two whole sides of paper with promises that he was fine, that he was sorry, that it was all a big misunderstanding, and please don't be upset. The thought of his mom in tears over his death made his heart constrict painfully, as if squeezed by some malevolent hand. Hopefully, his folks would get the letter real soon. Hopefully it would put an end to any suffering and heartache they felt.

 _Thank God I don_ _'t have a dame waiting at home for me._ Once, he'd envied men like Carrot. Now, he was simply glad that his supposed death couldn't hurt anyone else.

Somebody knocked on his door, and Bucky was on his feet before he could even wonder who it might be. His heart pounded in his chest, a terrifying drum beat prompting him to run, to get away from whatever danger was out there. But at the same time, his body froze rigid; like a rabbit in the headlights, he just couldn't move.

"Excuse me, sir?" The voice was young. Muffled. English. "I have your bags here."

The drumbeat subsided. Aching muscles relaxed. Bucky strode to the door and yanked it open. Sure enough, there was a bellhop with his belongings. The young man offered a brief smile. "Would you like me to bring your bags in for you, sir?"

"No, it's fine. I'll take them from here. Thanks." He glanced up and down the corridor. Empty. "Here, thanks," he said, pulling a dollar bill from his pocket and thrusting it at the bellhop.

"Thank you, sir," the young man said, accepting the note. If he cared that it was American money, he didn't say. "Please let me know if you need anything else."

"Yeah, I will. Thanks."

Bucky waited until the bellhop had gone, then dragged his bags into the room, closed the door, and leaned back against it. Though his heart was no longer racing, his hands were shaking, and his legs felt weak. He closed his eyes, and images of the dark Krausberg laboratory came flashing into his mind, bringing with them the sharp taste of blood. _Get a grip, Barnes. You_ _'re not back there. You're never going back there. You're safe. Relax._

Time to take his mind off his scare. He had no idea how long he'd be staying here, but he emptied his bags anyway. His clothes went into the small wardrobe in the corner of the room, and his socks, underwear and personal items went into the chest of drawers beside the bed. There was a small coal fire set into the chimney a few feet from the foot of the bed, with a brass fire guard around it. Bucky set a fire going, then closed the curtains over the small window. They were blackout curtains, and the room was plunged immediately into darkness. With icy tendrils of panic setting back in, he managed to fumble his way to the chest of drawers—stubbing his big toe painfully in the process—and found the switch for the bed-side lamp. _Let there be light!_ The soft glow of the electric light bathed the room in warm yellow, banishing the cold panic.

The en-suite bathroom was small, but a luxury compared to latrine pits and bathing in rivers. Bucky's first taste of civilisation in five months came not in the form of stew and dumplings, but a heated shower. He ran the water as hot as it would go, stripped out of his dirty uniform, and stepped into the small cubicle. The shower curtain tried to cling to his skin, but he ignored it. Closing his eyes, he let the hot water soak his hair and run down his face, washing away days' worth of sweat and grime from his body. The water pressure wasn't great, but damn, it felt good to be clean again.

He found a complimentary bar of soap on the soap tray, and worked it into a lather as he cast his mind back to the last time he'd had a shower. _Plymouth_. The cool showers after Danzig had forced them to do laps until they'd sweated out every drop of water in their bodies. It felt like a lifetime ago. Hard to believe it had been just five months.

A fluffy towel awaited him, along with the smell of fresh linens that was so reminiscent of home. He dried himself off, dressed in his cleanest uniform, and met his weary reflection in the full length mirror inside the wardrobe door.

He had a small shaving mirror in his personal effects, which he'd used a couple of times since coming out of Krausberg, but this was the first time he'd truly seen himself, and now he understood why Steve and the others were worrying about him. He still looked like himself, but somehow… less. His eye were ringed by shadows of tiredness above cheeks that were too gaunt. His hair, even fresh out of the shower, seemed lanky and dull, and his new jacket, which he'd requisitioned from the quartermaster before leaving Italy, didn't fit quite right across the shoulders.

 _Maybe they really did take something out of me, on that table. I_ _'ve lost weight, but what else have I lost?_

A nasally voice echoed inside his head. _"You are the first subject to survive stage two. I cannot wait to see what new revelations stage three brings!"_

Bucky closed his eyes, banishing his reflection, trying to banish the voice. "I'm not a Subject," he whispered. "I'm a person. I'm James Buchanan Barnes, and I'm safe from you, you twisted son of a bitch."

A knock came again from the door, but Bucky managed to keep a handle on his nerves this time. Besides, he recognised that knock. Quiet, tentative, as if the person knocking was hesitant to draw attention to himself. Only one person knocked like that.

"It's open, Steve," he called. His first mistake. Should'a locked the door. After all, just because he was in England, didn't mean he was a hundred percent safe. HYDRA had come after Steve and that doctor who'd juiced him up, in New York. If their reach extended that far, it probably extended to England, too.

Steve's head appeared in the doorway, followed by the rest of Steve, all six-foot-something of him. Even now, days after seeing Steve 2.0 for the first time, Bucky was still continually surprised by his friend's new size.

Like Bucky, Steve had showered and changed, and when he saw his friend, a grin slid across his face. "Who are you, and what've you done with that dirty, smelly guy who was in this room earlier?"

"Believe it or not, I've been dirtier than that." During the battle for Como, they'd fought for days, bloody, bruised, their skin almost as dark as the members of the 370th. There'd been times when he feared they'd lose Como to the Krauts. Bathing had been the last thing on his mind.

"I believe it," Steve assured him. "Remember that time in ninth grade when we went beach-combing for shellfish in those rock pools, and you thought it would be a good idea to cross the 'sand'?"

"How was I supposed to know it was a giant mud-hole? But at least we managed to get the stink of the Hudson off us, after a couple of baths."

"My clothes were ruined. Mom wouldn't even attempt to wash them," said Steve.

"As I recall, we had fun, and that's what's really important."

Steve chuckled and clapped a hefty hand on his shoulder. "Truer words were never spoken. Anyway, some of the guys are talking about going out for something to eat. Apparently, Falsworth knows a great place a few streets away. You in?"

Bucky looked back at his small room. It was dark, it was comfortable, and he felt at ease in it. But he couldn't hide away from the world forever. He had to get better to get back in the fight, and if there was one thing he had learnt from being in the army, it was the first step to recovering from injury was a hearty meal.

"Yeah, I could eat," he agreed. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he would make himself eat until he was fat if it meant getting back to the front lines. After all, there was still a war to be fought, and he had a lot of pain to pay back.


	72. Check Up

We Were Soldiers

 _72\. Check Up_

"How do you sleep, Sergeant?" asked the doctor in charge of his physical assessment.

"On my back, usually," Bucky replied. "Though, sometimes I roll to one side during the night. And one time, I woke up on my front."

The doctor gave Bucky one of _those_ looks. It was a look that said he'd been through this before and no longer found that joke funny, if he ever had.

"I sleep like anyone who's been on the front lines," Bucky clarified. "As much as I can, whenever I can."

"Any insomnia?"

"Nope."

"You know, doctors can tell when they're being lied to."

Bucky pushed away the irritated voice in his head that told him he didn't need to be going through this. Colonel Phillips had ordered medical evaluations on everybody who'd come out of Krausberg, and wouldn't make any exceptions. It was only Bucky's second day in England, and he would've preferred a few days to put on some weight before being put through a medical exam. Falsworth's 'great place to eat' had been blitzed months ago, so they'd settled for baked potatoes lathered with butter from a street vendor. The potatoes had been surprisingly delicious; Bucky had eaten three, to Steve's smiling approval.

"Fine. Sometimes I have nightmares," he admitted. They'd been infrequent since the start of the war, when they'd lost their first man. Became more frequent but tolerable as the war progressed. They'd only gotten bad enough to wake him since Krausberg. Last night had been the worst. The same nightmare had recurred three times, and after the third, he'd given up trying to sleep. Even though he'd left Krausberg, that place was still with him. In his head and in his bones, like a sickness no doctor could carve out.

"And how's your appetite?"

"Pretty good. I ate three baked potatoes last night."

"And your physical state? Any weakness? Lethargy? Trembling or shaking? Nausea? Chronic p—"

"No. Nothing like that. I'm fine, Doc. Really."

The doctor's skeptical expression suggested he didn't believe Bucky about that, either.

"A nurse will be along in a few minutes to take some observations. Please co-operate with her."

Bucky reclined on the bed as the doctor pulled aside the curtain and stepped into the next cubicle. Falsworth and Dugan had already been through this, earlier in the morning. In the cubicle next door, Dernier was replying in broken English as the doctor subjected him to the same interrogation as Bucky. Next it would be Jones and Morita's turn. Bucky was already plotting how to scare them with a horror story about the physical.

"Good morning, Sergeant Barnes," a feminine voice called. A nurse in a white uniform entered the cubicle, clipboard in hands. She was a dour-faced woman with a shock of red beneath her white hat, and every muscle in Bucky's body tensed at the sight of her. Nurse Green had red curls just like that. Why couldn't he have gotten some smiling, plump, Audrey-looking nurse?

"Morning," he muttered.

She didn't seem bothered by his less than enthusiastic greeting. From a small cupboard next to his bed, she pulled out a cuff. "Let's start with your blood pressure."

The physical exam was almost exactly the same as the one he'd endured at Last Stop before being shipped out from the States. She took his blood pressure, blood and urine samples, she tested his reflexes, listened to his heartbeat and breathing, and made sure he still had the ability to cough on command. She noted her results on her clipboard chart, then snapped the thing closed with such force that it made him jump.

"So, when do I get the results?" he asked as he buttoned up his shirt.

"All recommendations will be handed to commanding officers within the next few days," she said.

"Recommendations?"

"On how long a period each soldier requires to recover from his injuries and ailments. You'll receive your physical exam results once your CO decides how to proceed with your recuperation."

"Well, I feel fine," Bucky lied. "A few days' leave and I'll be ready to head back into the fight." Of course, that might mean leaving Steve. Bucky's best friend was determined to become a real soldier, which might mean revisiting boot camp so he could get his proper basic training. Or maybe Phillips would want to keep Steve back for _special_ missions. How different would France have been, if Steve had been there? The 107th might not have lost so many men.

The nurse didn't bother engaging him in conversation about just how 'fine' he was. She merely grunted and moved on to the next cubicle. Bucky wasn't in the mood to walk the streets of London alone, so he waited in the hospital reception for Dernier. When the Frenchman appeared, it was with grumbles Bucky didn't understand but could guess the subject of.

"Wanna find somewhere to get lunch?" Bucky offered.

Dernier sighed and threw his hands up melodramatically above his head. "Ahh, English food! Only little better than starving. Oui, we eat."

The brisk November air nipped at their skin when they stepped out of the hospital. Bucky hunched his shoulders and wished for one of the scarves his mother used to knit for him when he was a kid. Around him, the people of London did their best to ignore the weather. Snippets of their conversations reached his ears: two women complained about the size of rationed bread loves shrinking again; a group of suited men held council about the perceived state of the Eastern Front; a couple with a baby in a pram argued over what to cook for some family gathering.

Were these the conversations happening back home? Was New York in a similar limbo, suspended between _state of war_ and _life goes on_? Or, to the people back home, was the war more like a moving picture, something still removed from everyday life? Steve said a Nazi in New York had made headlines because such events were unheard of. If that was the case, if the war was still nothing more than a storm brewing on the distant horizon, then everything Bucky had been through was worth it. Mom and Dad, Mary-Ann and Janet, Charlie, all his friends… keeping them safe was why he was out here.

What if they took that away from him? Made him go back home? He'd signed up to protect his family, and others like them. Without that, he'd be reliant on everybody else to do his job for him. He'd sit safe in some office pushing paper around a desk while Gusty and Hodge and Steve kept up the fight. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. To distract himself from a plague of _what ifs_ , he turned his attention to his companion. Dernier was almost a head shorter than Bucky, and in his civilian clothing he looked more at home on the streets of London than Bucky felt.

"So, Jacques," he said. "How come you're still with us? I mean, you're the only civilian outta Krausberg who came to England with us. I would'a thought you'd be itching to get back to France."

Dernier shrugged. "I 'ave intel to give. Maybe I can 'elp from this side of the Channel."

"You got any family, back in France?"

"Oui, one brother, one sister."

"Are they in the Resistance too?"

Dernier shook his head, then offered Bucky a grin. "I forbade it. Older brother's right."

"We have something in common, then. I'm an older brother, too. I've got a brother and two sisters." Bucky cast his mind back to his former older-brother duties. "You ever have to warn guys to treat your sister right?"

"Of course. Most important job."

They wandered along the banks of the Thames until they found a small shop selling cooked food. A line of people queueing right out the door led Bucky to believe it might be a good place to eat, so they joined the back of the line and people-watched while they waited. The folks in London reminded him of those in Plymouth. Though parts of their city lay in rubble, nobody seemed particularly fazed by the idea that at any moment the _Luftwaffe_ might come back to finish the job. He supposed that after years of living with air raids, it was possible to become desensitised to the horrors of nightly bombings. Like Falsworth said: why bother filling in the potholes when by tomorrow, the road might be gone?

Would the people back home face adversity with such aplomb? He wasn't so sure. The attack on Pearl Harbour had sent shockwaves through the U.S. Perhaps the President had been preparing for war, but the people had become complacent, believing themselves safe. Reality had delivered them a rude awakening.

By the time they reached the front of the queue, Bucky's stomach was growling so loud that people further up the line were giving him funny looks. Even Dernier's face was scrunched up with the effort of trying not to laugh. Still, judging by the heavy aroma of grease and oil, whatever was being served here oughta be good.

Bucky stepped up to the counter and was handed a newspaper-wrapped package. A similar package was then thrust into Dernier's waiting hands. The man standing behind the counter said, "One bob, sirs."

"Bob?" Bucky asked Dernier. Who the hell was Bob? Dernier merely shrugged.

"The price of your lunch is one shilling," the counter-man said patiently.

"But I haven't even ordered!"

"This is a fish and chips shop. Fish and chips is the only thing we sell, unless you want sausage and chips. But sausage is rationed, so it'll cost you two bob bit, plus a ha'penny if you want gravy."

Bucky opened his mouth to argue that he didn't particularly _want_ fish and potato chips, but his stomach got a whiff of the smell coming from the newspaper packet and growled a new warning at him. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of English coins left over from Plymouth and selected a shilling. "You got money?" he asked Dernier, who shook his head. So he paid for Dernier's lunch, too.

"Merci, mon ami," the Frenchman said as they stepped out onto the street. "Et bon appétite!"

"What kinda lunatics serve fish with potato chips?" Bucky asked him. The package in his hands felt warm and heavy. Maybe it was a really big fish. In his head, he pictured a whole fish, scales and all, boiled and covered with chips. His stomach promptly ceased growling.

"Nah, is different chips." Dernier unwrapped his food and showed Bucky the contents. They turned out to be steak fries, shiny with oil, and a piece of battered fish so large that it might've actually been a whale. "See?" Picking up a tiny, flat wooden fork from the top of the pile of steak fries, Dernier speared one and made a great show of being offended by British cuisine before finally shoving the thing in his mouth.

Bucky found an equally large portion inside his own newspaper wrapping. Each time he tried to spear a chip, it fell off his tiny fork, so in the end he abandoned the utensil and used his fingers. They walked as they ate, and it didn't take Bucky long to polish off the whole thing. He thought it might just be the best thing he'd ever eaten. After he was done, he licked his fingers clean and tossed the empty wrapper into a trash can. Dernier, who was still only halfway through his lunch, looked at Bucky as if he was mad.

"Très hungry?"

"I could eat a horse."

Dernier chuckled. "Ask for sausage. You might."

Bucky made a mental note to avoid the sausage in future.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The heels of Peggy's shoes tapped out a _click clack click clack_ rhythm that echoed down the corridor as she kept pace beside Colonel Phillips. Ahead, Howard strode on, both eager and animated. He talked to himself as he walked, quiet phrases of _"Really didn't think he'd be able to do it…"_ and _"Hope he didn't bring us all this way for nothing."_

His skepticism was understandable. The chances of anybody ever replicating Erskine's serum were so unlikely that Howard had barely even bothered trying. _Alice_ _'s white rabbit,_ he'd called it. Chasing a dream.

Kaufmann and his people had fewer hangups and more reason to succeed. Unlike Howard, they didn't have dozens of other projects they could be working on. For security reasons, they were never given more than one or two projects at a time. It allowed them to focus without dividing their concentration or resources. Hopefully, their work would now pay dividends.

Agent Pollard was waiting for them outside the laboratory. Phillips had recruited him straight out of the SIS, and Peggy had to admit, he made a competent SSR Agent. He offered nods as the cadre approached, and didn't even budge when Stark tried to inch around him.

"Welcome back, Colonel Phillips. Agent Carter. Mister Stark."

"Agent Pollard," Phillips returned. "Please tell me Kaufmann isn't leading us on a wild goose chase."

Pollard held up his hands. "I'm no scientist, Colonel"—Howard smirked at that—"but Kaufmann's people have been unusually excited these past couple of weeks, and I don't think it's over the new sausages the cook's been making."

"Alright, let's speak to him, then."

Pollard stepped aside and opened the doors, allowing the others to enter first. In the lab, a dozen or so scientists were hard at work, some writing out notes at their desks, others titrating liquids between beakers, others quietly discussing a series of complex equations etched onto a chalkboard. A few glanced up at the newcomers, but they swiftly resumed their work.

"You're right, Agent Pollard," said Howard. "They're positively ecstatic."

General Kaufmann detached himself from the group around the chalkboard and straightened up as he approached. He wasn't a tall man, only an inch or two taller than Peggy herself, but he strove for every iota of height now. Peggy guessed that whatever news he had to impart was either very good, or very bad.

They went through another round of greetings. Kaufmann offered stiff nods whilst Stark practically hopped from foot to food with impatience.

"Now," said Phillips, "would you mind telling us what was so important you had to drag us back from the front lines?"

The smile offered by Kaufmann wasn't cold, but it was definitely on the frostier side of friendly. "Of course. Please, step this way, Colonel."

He took them to a smaller room to one side of the lab, where cages of mice were housed. Peggy wrinkled her nose at the acrid stench of rodent urine; Stark actually pulled out his kerchief and covered his nose and mouth.

"We've been running tests," Kaufmann explained. "We hoped to reproduce the effects of the serum first in mice, then in dogs, then monkeys."

"And how'd that work out for you?"

Kaufmann stopped in front of a cage that was covered by a dark sheet. He pulled the sheet off, revealing a bunch of small, white furry bodies, twisted and in the early stages of decay.

"Not well." Kaufmann put the sheet back. "But then, you already suspected this, no?"

"I don't like to play guessing games, General Kaufmann," said Phillips. "If you've got something to say, say it straight."

"Interesting." Kaufmann tapped his chin with his finger as if truly fascinated by Phillips' words. "You don't like guessing games, yet that is exactly what you have had my men and I playing for the past five months. We have figured out why none of our experiments work, why our calculations are always off: we do not possess the full set of data. We have been trying to piece together a jigsaw puzzle using only half of the pieces. Until we have the other half, we can go no further."

Peggy fixed her gaze on the nearest cage of mice to avoid looking at Kaufmann, certain that he'd read the truth in her eyes. Despite her skill at espionage and deception, she was frighteningly bad at lying.

"And if you had the other half?" Phillips asked. "How long do you think it would take to produce a viable formula?"

"Well, that depends on how far Stark has got with his own research." Kaufmann turned to face Howard. "I assume you've been dedicating all of your efforts to unravelling the mysteries of this serum, Herr Stark?"

Howard cleared his throat. "Well, you know how things are, out in the field. Constant interruptions, lack of proper lab facilities, incompetent assistants… and I'm sure they'd replaced the coffee with mud before we set off back to England. If I'd had the proper amenities, my third of the research—"

" _Third?!_ " Kaufmann's face swiftly changed from pale to beetroot.

"Oh, crap. Did I say third? I meant half. I'm no good at math that doesn't have Greek symbols in it."

But Kaufmann had already dismissed Howard. He turned to Phillips, eyes narrowed. "Colonel, this is unacceptable! You gave us the task of reproducing the serum from a single blood sample, then made our task impossible by with-holding vital components from us! For months we have toiled, long hours, working through the night, with the hopes that this serum would provide the key to winning the war. And now we find out our hard work has been for nothing!"

Peggy kept her mouth firmly closed, suppressing the desire to speak her mind. Kaufmann's people might've been working hard, but she knew Kaufmann himself was more of a leader than a scientist… and that he preferred to spend his evenings dining out and being entertained by easy young men with unnatural predilections. She doubted he'd done more than show up at the lab once a week for briefings.

"After all this time, you still do not not trust us," Kaufmann accused.

Phillips switched on his stone-faced scowl. "It's not a matter of trust—"

"Your actions say otherwise."

"The data was split into three because we can't afford to have a single person or group in possession of the full set. Not you, not Stark, not anybody. That blood sample is what gives our research the edge over Schmidt and his cronies."

Kaufmann's right hand reflexively curled into a fist at the mention of Schmidt's name. He'd sworn vengeance on the man who'd betrayed and replaced him, and Peggy knew he wouldn't rest until HYDRA had fallen. In truth, she suspected Kaufmann's days in Hitler's inner circle would've been numbered even without Schmidt ready to take over the science division. Those closest to Hitler—Göring, Himmler, Goebbels—had felt threatened by the power Sturmabteilung held. An army of peasants with ideas above their station, some of them sharing their leader's personal tastes. They saw Kaufmann as a direct threat to Hitler's power, and to the moral purity he promised to restore.

"Then you will have to give us something else to work on; some other project," Kaufmann said through a clenched jaw. "It is pointless for us to work on something that will never come to fruition."

Peggy's heart sank to somewhere around her stomach. If Kaufmann and the others couldn't recreate the formula, Abraham's legacy would die with him. Erskine hadn't envisioned an army of super-soldiers, but a few carefully selected individuals to imbue with the strength needed to fight an enemy in their own territory. If Project Lazarus couldn't bring Project Rebirth back to life, Steve Rogers would be the first and last recipient of the serum: the only person physically capable of standing up to Schmidt.

"Colonel," she said, turning to face Phillips, "perhaps it's time to accept that the only way to move forward is to take risks."

Kaufmann leapt at the lifeline she offered. "If you provide me with all of the available data, I can promise results within six months."

"A bold promise," said Phillips. He glanced to Howard from the corner of his eye. "Stark?"

Howard hesitated for only a moment. "Well, it would certainly speed things along."

"Very well. Stark, you'll supervise Project Lazarus from here."

"But Colonel, I do so love working on the front lines, constantly being shot at, drinking coffee that's more mud than not, peeing into a ditch—oh wait, I hate those things. I'd be happy to work with Kaufmann's team."

"Glad to hear it."

"Who has the other third of the research?" Kaufmann asked.

"A colleague of mine in Sweden, Doctor Per Selvig. He's the professor of molecular biology at Stockholm University."

"And how goes his progress with the formula?"

"I don't know. Haven't heard from him since I sent him the data. Then again, I _have_ been out in the middle of nowhere, and this isn't exactly the sort of conversation you telegraph. Otherwise, you wouldn't have asked us to return to England to have this discussion," Howard pointed out.

Phillips glanced at his watch, and something like displeasure slid across his face. "I'm running late for a meeting with Senator Brandt's aide and a half-dozen politicians and generals. Agent Pollard, can I leave you in charge of assisting Mr. Stark with any logistics?"

"Of course, Colonel." And, for a wonder, Pollard managed to sound like he didn't mind being assigned as Howard's errand-boy.

"Good. Carter can help." _Damn_. "If you'll excuse me."

Peggy offered a salute at the departing Colonel, then turned her focus back to Stark, who was already issuing instructions.

"I'll need my workbench bringing in, and you'll have to requisition me the use of the electron microscope from Cambridge University—there's one in London, but Cambridge's is better. I'll need two competent assistants, one with a PhD in biochemistry, another with a PhD in medicine." Pollard dutifully jotted the instructions down in his notebook. "And this is the most important part, so be sure to write it in big letters: I'll need a coffee machine installing in the corner. The beans need to be the finest Colombian beans you can import, and they have to be crushed for exactly thirty-six seconds. Not too fine, not too coarse. Thirty-six seconds. Colombian. You got that?"

"Is he kidding?" Pollard asked Peggy.

"I never joke about coffee," Howard assured him. "Now, Peg, I need you to place a long-distance call to Dr. Selvig and ask him to send the data I gave him from Mr. Rogers' blood sample. Best wait until later, though, as he's probably teaching right now. He hates it when his classes are interrupted."

"Will that be all?" she asked, in her wryest tone. "Perhaps I could draw you a bath?"

Howard winked. "Maybe later. Right now, I have sciencing to do, and you two non-scientists are in my hair."

"I think we've been dismissed," said Pollard, as Howard pottered over to the chalkboard and began erasing calculations with his shirt sleeve.

Peggy set off towards the main door, and Pollard hurried after her. "I'd make the coffee machine the first priority, if I were you," she told him. "Howard's very grumpy when he's gone too long without a cup of the stuff."

"Noted."

They passed through the corridor to the _click clack click clack_ of Peggy's heels. She kept up the fastest pace she could manage without running, itching beneath her skin to get away from a silence which might very soon start to feel uncomfortable.

Just as they reached the building's front doors, Pollard struck.

"So. I know a restaurant in Camden Town that still serves real prime steak."

"I've always found steak to be overrated."

"Of course, steak isn't the only thing they serve," he continued. "They do a mean plate pie. Or, if you've suddenly decided to become vegetarian, they have this thing called a 'nut roast' that they serve with all the trimmings of a Sunday lunch. What do you say?"

"Are you asking me out to dinner, Agent Pollard?"

He snorted quietly. "Agent Pollard? Seriously, Peggy? After how long we've known each other? And yes, I'm asking you out to dinner. In fact, I'm still waiting for an answer from the _last_ time I asked you out to dinner. Remember how you said, _ask me again the next time I_ _'m in England_? That was right before you shipped off to God only knows where, and I had no idea whether I'd see you again. So, you're here, and I'm asking again."

She stopped and turned to face him. With his floppy brown hair and honest brown eyes, he could have the pick of any woman he wanted. He'd held a candle for her since the day they'd met, he a wet-behind-the-ears SIS operative, she a code-breaker working out of Bletchley Park. Nothing had become of it, because she was engaged to Fred at the time, and he was too much of a gentleman to interfere with a promised woman.

After she and Fred broke up, he'd been a shoulder to cry on, never once trying to take advantage or overstep his bounds. By the time she'd felt emotionally ready to move on from Fred, she'd become a field agent in the SSR. When Pollard finally worked up to asking her out, it was on the eve of her first mission abroad. Bad timing had kept her from accepting his offers so far. She didn't want to say _yes_ and have him waiting around for a dinner that might never come because her job was inherently dangerous. Saying _yes_ would've tempted fate a little too much for her liking.

Now, she had a different reason for not wanting to accept his offer. That reason was a six-foot two-inch blond-haired American whose smile made her heart turn somersaults in her chest.

"Francis, I have a lot on my mind right now," she said. "And you've been a good friend for such a long time, I'm worried that trying to be _more_ will complicate that."

"I'm not asking you to marry me, Peggy. I'm not asking to court you, or be _more_ than what we already have. All I'm asking for is dinner. A chance for us to catch up on each other's lives outside of work. Remember how we used to go walking down by the lake at Bletchley during lunch hour? How we'd sit out on the grass when it was nice, or eat in the café when it rained? We talked, we laughed, we had a good time. As friends. I miss that."

"Surely you have other friends," she chided gently.

"Of course. But I miss your level head and the way you see right to the heart of things."

When she realised she was biting her lower lip, she silently chastised herself. How did she always manage to fall into the trap of over-thinking things? Really, it ought to be simple. She should accept Pollard's offer and have dinner with him, because it was just dinner, and it didn't mean anything. And yet, a pair of blue eyes flecked with green flashed through her mind, silently accusing even though there was nothing to accuse her of. She and Steve Rogers were colleagues. Not even friends, like she was with Francis. She owed him nothing, except that mild hint of a dance they'd discussed in the back of an SSR car en route to the secret Brooklyn lab.

"I'll think about it," she offered, hating herself for the cop-out.

"Alright." He stopped by the door, opening it for her. "I can tell that's as good as I'm going to get right now. You know where to find me if you decide you're hungry." He descended the steps from the door to the pavement, and stopped by a car waiting out front. "You need a lift?"

His chivalry made her feel even more lousy over not having the guts to turn down his offer. "No, my hotel's just around the corner. But thanks."

He didn't push the matter. After a quick goodbye wave, he slid into the car and off it went. Not for the first time, Peggy wondered why it was so difficult to turn down an offer from a gentleman. If Francis was a jerk, like Private Hodge, she could've quickly put him in his place and made it absolutely clear there would never be any fraternising between them. But Francis was better than that, and he deserved more than cold scorn.

"Margaret Elizabeth Carter, you need to grow a spine," she muttered to herself. "And sort out your priorities whilst you're at it: now is not the time to be thinking about romance—with anybody."

Now, all she had to do was get her heart to agree with her head, and everything would be fine.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: You may remember Kaufmann from chapter 52._


	73. Waiting Game

We Were Soldiers

 _73\. Waiting Game_

Steve yelped as the seamstress's hand brushed his inner thigh. The woman gave him a frosty glare, and in her cultured English accent, said, "Please stand still."

Instead of objecting that he'd stand still if _she_ _'d_ be a little more careful where she put the measuring tape, Steve clamped his jaw shut and tried to refocus on Kevin. Now that he was back in civilisation—and away from muddy landing strips—Kevin was back to his usual cheerful, forthright self.

"Of course, you'll have to complete your basic training," Kevin was saying as he read from a memo fresh in from Senator Brandt. "A week of crawling through the mud does not a soldier make."

A medal of commendation had achieved what months of Steve pleading had not. Senator Brandt was finally releasing Steve from his USO obligations and allowing him to properly join the military as an infantryman. Now, Steve was being measured up for his combat uniform, since 'Steve-sized' wasn't a G.I. standard. As well, the measurements would be sent back to the States, where Senator Brandt fully intended to rope some Steve-sized patsy into donning the Star-Spangled costume for autographs and photo ops. It was the only way for _Captain America_ to be in two places at once, and Steve sincerely hoped his replacement enjoyed the attention of the limelight.

"But twelve weeks of crawling through the mud makes a soldier?" he asked.

"That's what the brass claim."

Steve wasn't so sure. He'd seen the state of the soldiers in the SSR camp. Even the ones who hadn't been captured and tortured by HYDRA had been battle-weary and shell-shocked. He suspected it took a certain kinda guy to enjoy living constantly on the edge, and that most of the men fighting in this war weren't that kinda guy. Losing friends, taking lives… a guy could quickly go crazy, doing too much of that. For the first time since signing his name on the USO contract, he was grateful for Captain America. Perhaps the larger-than-life character helped to remind the soldiers on the front lines of the bigger picture. Remind them what they were sacrificing for.

But now, it was time for somebody else to carry the flag. Steve was looking forward to being a regular old serum-enhanced soldier.

He inhaled sharply as the seamstress ran her tape up the back of his thigh. She was doing it on purpose. Probably laughing on the inside at making him squirm. Well, she wasn't fooling him with her stony countenance. Steve forced himself to stand rigid and deny her the pleasure of seeing him made uncomfortable.

"Senator Brandt's thrown some weight around on the Hill," Kevin continued. "He's convinced a couple of generals that once you've gone through basic, they oughta make your title a rank and give you your own command."

Steve groaned, earning another glare from the seamstress. "But Kevin, I don't want to skip ranks. I'm an enlisted man, not an officer. I don't want special treatment."

"If you don't want special treatment, maybe you shouldn't have disobeyed orders and flown off to rescue a thousand men from HYDRA confinement—"

"It was more like two hundred," Steve corrected. A thousand?! The number got bigger with each retelling, and Kevin ought to know better because _he_ _'d been there_.

"Point is, you reap what you sow. You wanted to save your friend. Noble. But if any other soldier had done what you did, they would'a been court-martialled. Is that what you want? You wanna be sent home to dance on the stage a bit more?"

"No, but—"

"Exactly. You can't have it both ways, Steve. A good leader knows how to compromise. You're protected from being sent home. That's special treatment. But you can't dictate where the special treatment ends. Like it or not, you _are_ special. And your country needs you. We don't need Private Steve Rogers; we need Captain Am— I mean," Kevin corrected, seeing the expression on Steve's face, "Captain Steve Rogers."

"I see. So, when can I start my Basic?"

"That depends on our allies." When Steve raised a quizzical eyebrow, Kevin elaborated. "All our soldiers get their basic State-side. Nobody ships out here without having gone through it. So, naturally, we've no basic training camps established in old Blighty. The Brits do have camps, though. You'll have to tag along with one of the English regiments. It'll be roughly the same as what we do back home, except the food will be worse, the weather will be damper, and you'll have to learn the British names for things."

Basic with the British didn't sound too bad. After all, Falsworth and Peggy Carter had gone through it, and they were doing alright for it. And the English _had_ been holding out against the Germans for years already. Clearly they were doing something right.

"For now," Kevin continued, "just relax and take it easy. You've earned yourself a break, and once the medical exams are completed for the troops freed from Krausberg, you'll get your training date."

"Okay. Thanks, Kevin. For everything." As infuriatingly tight-lipped as the guy could be sometimes, Steve owed him a lot. Kevin had been a friend when Steve had nobody else to turn to. Not a close friend, not like Bucky or the guys they'd grown up with, but close enough. "Are we done here?" he asked the seamstress before she could chastise him for leaving without permission.

She pursed her lips and wound her measuring tape up. "We're done. You'll have your uniform before the end of the week."

"Great. Thank you. I appreciate it."

The watering hole favoured by Falsworth and some of the other guys rescued from Krausberg was the _Whip and Fiddle_ , a quaint tavern in Pimlico full of old world charm. As he made his way there, Steve dodged locals and service personnel who mingled together with patience and familiarity. Not for the first time, he was struck by the similarities—and differences—between London and New York.

On the surface, everything was the same. The daily routines, the commutes, the couples raising families. Underneath, there were differences. Back home, groups of soldiers walking down the streets would've raised eyebrows. Here, the people were used to seeing military personnel from various different countries. They served black soldiers right alongside white ones, and didn't provide separate dining facilities for the coloured troops. Steve supposed that to people who'd been living in the shadow of war for so long, there were more important things to worry about than the colour of a guy's skin.

For Steve, the differences were a welcome change. He'd hated seeing Terrence treated so badly in L.A., but here, Jones could walk straight into the _Fiddle_ and ask for a pint of warm flat beer and not be told he wasn't on any "guest list."

Music spilled out into the street from the open door of the _Fiddle_. The pub had been given permission to open early and close late, to help cater for and entertain the foreign and domestic soldiers during their period of R &R. When Steve stepped through the door, he had to navigate a swarm of RAF pilots and Australian soldiers before he found his friends at their usual table. They were tipsy despite the early hour, and looked to be engaged in some sort of drinking game involving a pair of die. Bucky wasn't with them, but a quick visual scan of the room found him at the bar, nursing a glass of amber liquid. Steve made his way over and clapped his friend on the shoulder. The pained wince on Bucky's face made him regret the gesture. He was still getting used to his own strength, and Bucky had been through more than most soldiers.

"Drinking to remember, or drinking to forget?" he asked, gesturing to Bucky's drink. His best friend still hadn't told him anything about his time in solitary confinement in the Krausberg camp, and as far as Steve knew, Bucky hadn't confided in anyone else, either. Hopefully, alcohol would loosen his lips. It wasn't good to keep things buried inside; he knew that from experience.

"Both."

"Need a drinking partner?"

Bucky shook his head, fixing his bloodshot gaze on the glass before him. "Thanks, but I'm not in the mood for company."

Steve bit his tongue, holding back the _that_ _'s not like you,_ comment he wanted to say. Of course it wasn't like the Bucky he'd known before: this _wasn_ _'t_ the Bucky he'd known before. Pre-war Bucky had been chatty, social and happy-go-lucky. Maybe he could one day be that guy again, but it was too soon, and some things were too heavy to bounce back from. If Bucky needed time and space to come to terms with everything that'd happened in Europe, then Steve would make sure he got it.

"Alright. I'll go and have a drink with the others. You can join us whenever you're ready."

Bucky merely nodded. Steve gave his friend a more gentle pat on the shoulder this time, then ordered his drink and joined Dugan and the others. No matter how long it took, he would be there for Bucky.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

At the bottom of the glass of brandy, Bucky found the face of Lieutenant Nestor. He'd barely given the lieutenant a thought since the man's death, but since he was toasting the memories of the friends and colleagues lost in the war, it seemed only fair that he include _all_ members of the 107th. He'd already done Tipper and Danzig, and he still had a long way to go. This would definitely take more than a single day of drinking.

Across the room, Dugan, Falsworth and the others were singing a chorus of _Row, row, row your boat_ , each singer coming in anew on the refrain. Steve had left almost an hour ago, probably because he no longer felt the effects of alcohol like he used to. Bucky couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Alcohol was one of life's few joys, and one of the few things which allowed him to forget about the cold metal table in Krausberg for more than a moment. He suspected, however, that there wasn't enough alcohol in the world to permanently erase the tender care of Doctor Zola and his HYDRA lackeys. The best Bucky could hope for was revenge, and he didn't care how cold it was served.

For the first time in three days, his mind wandered towards the subject of his medical assessment. No matter what the doctors said, he couldn't let them send him home. How could he go home and look his family in the face after he'd wished for other men to take his place on Doctor Zola's table? How could he go home and accept their comfort after he'd put a gun to his own head and tried to end his own life? He'd been a coward, and not worthy of being called _friend_ to anyone, not even Steve. Before he went home, he had to atone. He had to make up for putting other men on that table in his place. He had to erase his cowardice in trying to end his own life. He had to do something big. Something grand and selfless. He had to feel like a hero inside, so that he could go home and not have guilt gnaw at him if others called him a hero when he didn't deserve it. No matter how long it took, he had to make things right.

"Can I getcha another drink?" asked Lizzy, the barmaid. She was a pretty enough dame, with tight red curls and a face painted just enough to highlight her dazzling green eyes and pouting lips, but she had an eye for Dugan, which just went to show that British dames had no taste.

"No thanks, I'm done for the night," he said, his words barely slurred despite the three large glasses of brandy he'd consumed.

"Then how about a sympathetic ear? You look like a man who has a lot on his mind."

"Given the state of the world, I'd be surprised if there's a man alive who _doesn_ _'t_ have a lot on his mind."

"But not all of those men have access to sympathetic ears."

Bucky smiled. "True. But I'll pass. I've got a lot of stuff to figure out on my own. But I appreciate the offer."

"In that case, I'll see you tomorrow for more alcohol therapy."

He slunk out of the pub unnoticed by the others and turned up the collar of his jacket as he set off along the waterfront. The cold November air nipped at his skin, and he shoved his hands into his pockets, tensing and flexing his fingers to work his circulation through them. Others walking out were similarly hunched against the elements, their heads bowed into the chill breeze and lack of eye contact discouraging conversation.

That suited Bucky just fine. Even if he had someone to talk to, how could they possibly understand what he'd been through? It wasn't just Krausberg, it was everything that'd happened before it. The men he'd killed, the friends he'd lost, the sacrifices he'd made for a greater good he wasn't even sure existed anymore. The single consolation he had was that his family were safe. But they were also thousands of miles away, and he didn't know whether he'd see them again. Maybe he wouldn't be able to atone for all he'd done. Maybe he could never make up for wishing someone else to be tortured in his place. If he couldn't find a way to come back from that, how could he ever go home?

His guilt was made worse whenever Steve was around. Steve had come out here to find his friend, but Bucky wasn't even sure that guy existed anymore. Six months ago, he'd been a different person. One untouched by the darkness of war, one who didn't know anything about loss and pain. Could he ever go back to being that person? After the war, could he put it all aside and pretend like it had never happened, or would it always be there, haunting him? Would his nights always be plagued by nightmares of Zola and his table?

He found his way back to _The Strand_ and nodded to the doorman on duty. Eschewing the elevator, he opted for the stairs, unwilling to allow himself the comfort of modern technology. Once in his room, he kicked off his shoes and sank down onto the bed. For one long moment, he thought of nothing. Then, the copy of _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ caught his eye. He picked it up and ran his thumb across the pages so they made a brief _shhhhs_ noise.

Weeks ago, in some derelict Italian mine, he and Wells had mock-fought over the book. _I_ _'ll bequeath it to you in my will,_ Wells had said. _I don_ _'t wanna wait until you're dead before I get to read it,_ Bucky had countered. At the time, he'd figured the book might give him some insight into Wells' stand-offish personality, and help him understand his friend a little better. Now, he wasn't sure he _wanted_ to understand. His friend was gone, and understanding who he'd been wouldn't make any difference to anything. Besides, he suspected Wells didn't _want_ to be understood. After all, he'd done everything within his power to keep the book from Bucky. Maybe Bucky would just keep the book and not read it, to remind himself that there wasn't always an answer for everything.

He put the book aside, then rolled onto his stomach and settled himself into a semi-comfortable position. After the war, when he eventually got home, he would read the book. When he had long, carefree days to mull it over, he would study it. Until then, he still had a war to fight, and there was still so much he had to atone for.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _He shivered, but his shivering brought no warmth. He was too cold for that. Bone-cold upon a table of steel and ice. This couldn_ _'t be real. It had to be a dream; a nightmare. He'd already done this once. He couldn't be back here again. He'd sooner die than let Zola get his hands on him again._

" _Welcome back, Sergeant Barnes," the familiar, nasally voice said. Zola's face appeared above, a gleeful smile on his cruel lips. "I'm eager to begin stage three. Who knows what discoveries we will make? And we shall make them together! Isn't it exciting?"_

 _We_ _'re toys to him, Bucky realised. We're toys for him to play with, and he doesn't care if he breaks us. Why care for one toy, when you can just go out and get another?_

 _A needle pierced his skin, cold like a shard of ice. He tried to wrench his arm away, but it was lashed to the table and offered not even an inch of movement. His heart began a race, beating wildly inside his chest, and through sheer strength of will be managed to move his head a fraction, to glance down at the needle in his arm._

 _It wasn_ _'t a needle stuck into his vein, but an icicle, long and wickedly sharp. Bucky yelled and flailed, but that only made Zola laugh._

" _Don't worry, Sergeant Barnes. What we do here is making you strong. Stronger than any man has ever been before."_

 _But the icicle in his vein wasn_ _'t making him strong; it was making him cold as ice, cold and brittle. Bucky screamed, and Zola laughed._

BANG BANG BANG

"Sergeant Barnes? Are you in there? Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky's eyes flew open and his stomach lurched. But Zola wasn't there to greet him. It was just the ceiling of his room in the _Strand_ , and there was no cold metal table, but a comfortable bed. Safe. He was safe. Zola would never hurt him again.

"Sergeant Barnes? Please open up."

Bucky pushed himself out of bed, uncaring of the blankets that dropped to the floor, and made his way to the door. When he opened it, he found a Pfc. waiting. The man saluted, and held out an envelope.

"Sorry to wake you, sir, but I was asked to deliver this."

The envelope bore the official stamp of the U.S. Armed Forces. Maybe another letter from home. Hopefully a reply from his parents, though it would be some miracle to get a response so quickly.

"I didn't know the mail got delivered so early," he said.

A bemused frown spread across the Private's lips. "Early? Sir, it's one o'clock in the afternoon."

As if to confirm that, Bucky's stomach let out a hungry growl. "Oh. Um, I had a bit of a late night," he lied. "Thanks for the mail."

"No problem, sir."

Bucky closed the door and returned to his bed, sinking down onto it and running his hands through his hair. The dream lingered, and he shivered at the memory of icy needles in his arms. To take his mind off it, he got up and stoked the small coal fire set into the hearth opposite the foot of the bed. The dying embers fanned to life, and he held his hands towards the small flames.

His dream had felt so real. The things Zola had said were more like a memory. Had the scientist said those things whilst Bucky had been in a state of semi-consciousness? If so, they had to be a lie. Zola had killed countless test subjects already. What he was doing wasn't making people stronger, but killing them. Some sort of chemical warfare. The man was a butcher, and nothing more.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the letter and absently tore it open. He was halfway through the first paragraph before his mind truly clocked the words, and when it did, he went back to the start of the paragraph and read more slowly. Another shiver stole over him, but this one had nothing to do with the cold or the lingering nightmare.

 _Sergeant James B. Barnes_

 _107th Infantry_

 _Upon the recommendation of the United States Army medical staff, you are hereby ordered to stand down from active duty and to return home for an immediate period of recovery, until such time that you are deemed medically fit to resume your duties._

 _Your exemplary service to date has been noted, and the thanks of your government and the entire free world are extended to you. Please report to your commanding officer for further information regarding your debarkation date and time. I wish you a swift and uneventful journey home._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Chief of Staff, Gen. C. Marshall_

The letter was signed per procurationem. General Marshall didn't know about Bucky's service to date. He probably didn't even know about the letter. Just some carbon copy sent out to any soldier deemed medically unfit to serve. It wasn't right! He was fine! He didn't need to go home and recover. How would that help anything? He needed to get back out there, back into the fight. He needed to put a stop to Zola, and Schmidt, before they could hurt anyone else.

When the sound of ripping paper filtered through the angry haze descending over his mind, he glanced down and found the paper with his orders crumpled in his clenched fist. He quickly uncurled his fingers and smoothed the paper out over his knee.

Somehow, some way, he had to get these orders cancelled. But how the hell was he going to do that?


	74. Favours

We Were Soldiers

 _74\. Favours_

Bucky had tracked down Colonel Phillips' office in London to an inconspicuous building in a place called _Whitehall_. The area reminded him of the Manhattan district in New York. Men wore suits. They walked quickly and spoke to no-one. The women were prim and business-like, and everybody seemed to be taking life very seriously.

He'd never much liked Manhattan. What was it they said? _A nice place to visit, but I wouldn_ _'t wanna live there_. Give him the vibrant life of Brooklyn any day. All work and no play made Jack—and Bucky—a dull boy.

He didn't much like Whitehall, either. The place seemed dire and grim, and not just because of the war. An air of self-importance seemed to suffuse the place, and he didn't get the usual nods and smiles from passersby en route to the SSR's office.

"Can I help you, Sergeant?" the corporal manning the front desk asked.

"I'd like to speak to Colonel Phillips, please."

The corporal consulted a large open book in front of him. "I'm sorry, but Colonel Phillips is fully booked today. I could make you an appointment for… let's say, next Tuesday?"

The letter carrying his orders seemed to burn within his pocket.

"Next week is much too late. I need to see him right away."

"I'm sorry, but—"

Bucky stepped forward, fighting the scowl trying to form. "Look, my names is Sergeant James Barnes, with the 107th. I was part of Phillips' command in Europe. My regiment served with the SSR." Suddenly, inspiration struck. He pulled the letter from his pocket and thrust it into the corporal's face. "This is a letter from General Marshall instructing me to report to my CO immediately. My CO is Colonel Phillips. Now, are you gonna ignore an instruction from the Chief of Staff himself?"

With a sigh, the man leafed through the book. "I'm not trying to be awkward, Sergeant, but he really does have a full schedule. However, if you'd like to take a seat and wait, I'll see if he can spare five minutes for you between any of his meetings."

"Great. Five minutes is all I need. Thanks."

He took a seat, and he waited. He waited, and he waited. He saw men admitted into the elevator which went down only God knew how many levels, and he tried to be patient for his own sake. He couldn't go into this with a hot head. He had to stay calm and make his case. Phillips was a fair man. And if he wouldn't listen to Bucky alone, Wells would always back him up—

He shook his head. No. Wells was gone. Gusty and the others were still in Italy. There was nobody left to back him up. Nobody to stand in his corner and push him back into the ring when the blows rained hardest. He would just have to do this alone. That was fine. He could do that.

Two hours later, and just as his stomach was beginning to grumble again, he checked his watch. Four o'clock in the afternoon. How much longer could Colonel Phillips be? Surely the guy had to go off duty some time… didn't he?

"Has the Colonel got any free time, yet?" he asked the clerk on the desk.

"If he had free time, Sergeant, you would've seen him by now. Please be patient; it may be some time before Colonel Phillips is available. If you'd like to try again tomorrow..?"

"I'll wait." No damn clerk was gonna keep Bucky Barnes from getting Colonel Phillips to change his orders. He resumed his seat, and his wait.

He didn't register the _click click click_ of heeled shoes until Agent Carter appeared at the front desk. She didn't spot him at first, but as soon as she'd signed in, he leapt to his feet and insinuated himself between her and the elevator.

"Agent Carter, it's good to see you," he said, not fully a lie. He hadn't seen her since she'd dropped them off at the Strand hotel; hadn't even given her much thought, if he was honest with himself. He guessed she'd been busy with… whatever it was she did whenever she wasn't outperforming GIs on the front lines.

She ran her assessing gaze over him. "Sergeant Barnes. You're looking… well." For a spy, she wasn't a particularly good liar.

"Are you going down to meet Colonel Phillips?"

"Yes, I have an update briefing to give him."

"Great! I mean, would it be okay with you if I took five minutes of your meeting time to discuss something with the Colonel?"

She pursed her lips, and he could read the incoming disapproval. "That depends on what it is you want to discuss with him."

"It's… a personal matter."

"Then you'll have to come back tomorrow. I haven't seen Colonel Phillips in two days, and I don't have even a moment to spare for your personal matters."

With a sigh, he produced the crumpled letter from his pocket. So much for keeping this quiet until he could get the whole mistake straightened out. "It's about my orders to ship back home."

Carter's face immediately softened. An angry fire flared inside him at the pity in her eyes. It wasn't the first time he'd seen it, but it was usually reserved for when she thought he didn't notice. Bucky didn't need pity, not from her or from anyone else. Sure, he'd gone through things, but little worse than any of the other men on the front lines. No worse than the Hawkins family, who'd lost both their sons to the war. No worse than Franklin or Davies, who'd been crushed to death thanks to serendipity, and no worse than Tipper, who'd stepped on a mine, or Carrot, who'd eaten a barrage of HYDRA bullets. He was still better off than Wells, Jones and Hawkins, whose bodies were lying unburied in some Italian forest, and much better off than Gusty and Biggs and the others who were still living by their nerves on the front lines.

He hated the pity, but right now, it was a tool. He would be an idiot not to use it.

"So, about those five minutes..?"

"Yes, of course. I understand. Why don't you go down now and wait outside his office, and I'll give the two of you some time alone?"

"Thanks, Agent Carter." He injected a measure of sincerity into his voice. No telling when he'd need another favour. "I really appreciate it."

He shot a triumphant glare at the desk clerk and hurried into the elevator. It wasn't like the elevator in the Strand; it was merely a service elevator, draughty and small. The gears groaned ominously as the elevator descended past bare light bulbs barely giving off enough light to see by. Just before the elevator hit the ground, he wondered how long it'd been since the gears had last been oiled… and for how long he would plummet before meeting his end.

Another corridor greeted him at the bottom, this one bustling with service personnel. Bucky stopped one MP and asked for directions to Colonel Phillips' office. After a couple of minutes' wandering through the warren, he reached the waiting room and was greeted by a pretty blonde.

"Sergeant James Barnes, I'm here to see Colonel Phillips," he told her, hoping he wouldn't have to produce his letter again.

The blonde consulted the large diary on the desk in front of her. "I'm afraid I don't have you on the books for a meeting today, Sergeant. Perhaps there's been a mis—"

"I'm not on the books because Agent Carter has graciously allowed me five minutes of her meeting time with Colonel Phillips," he said through a clenched jaw. Jeez, why was it so hard to see his own CO for five damn minutes? Back on the front, he never had this problem; he could just walk into the command tent and talk to the guy. In fact, sometimes, it was hard to get away from him. There hadn't been all these clerks and secretaries standing as guard-dogs between Phillips and the outside world. "She's upstairs right now if you need to call up to check my story out."

He half expected her to smile and tell him that wouldn't be necessary. Instead, she picked up the telephone and dialled upstairs to make sure Agent Carter really had given up some of her time.

"What did you think, that I'm some sort of assassin come to make an attempt on Phillips' life?" Bucky scoffed, once the young woman had replaced the telephone on the desk.

"You can never be too careful," she said coolly. "If you'd like to take a seat, the Colonel's meeting is almost over."

Bucky took one of the hard plastic seats and tried to exude an air of patience. It didn't come easily. These people were obviously crazy if they thought Phillips was in danger of being assassinated in his own lair. If ever there was a line between security and madness, these people had not only reached it, but long ago crossed it. But that didn't matter. All he needed to do was get to Phillips and have his orders rescinded. After that, he'd be shipped back to the front, or reassigned to another regiment. Either way, he'd get back to the fight.

The bitter-sweet tang of freshly brewed coffee recalled his mind to the present, and he spotted a pot brewing in the corner of the office. The blonde was focused on her typewriter, on the tippy-tippy-tap of whatever letter she was writing. Bucky sniffed the air several times until her gaze came up to his face.

"Are you coming down with a cold, Sergeant? I have a spare handkerchief in my drawer, if you need one," she said.

Bucky glowered. "No thanks, I'm fine." He shouldn't have to _ask_ for a damn coffee.

The memory of the coffee-stirring bullshit back at Camp Shanks came drifting back with the aroma of hot joe, down through the months. He'd forgotten about those early days, when everything had been new and fresh, and none of them had truly understood what war was about. Franklin had always made the best cups of coffee, as taught to him by his ol' grandma.

A smile teased its way across Bucky's lips. Franklin was gone, but his memory remained. Bucky could show Franklin's methods of brewing and stirring coffee to other soldiers. It would be a way of keeping Franklin's memory alive even longer. Men who hadn't known him would praise him.

 _Would anybody do the same for me, if I died?_

He pushed the thought roughly aside. Stupid to think like that. Of course there would be people who'd keep his memory alive. Mom and Dad, his brother and sisters, Steve, and probably a lot of the friends he'd made whilst serving. Then there were his friends back in civvy life, some of whom had already gone to serve, and others who were waiting to be called up. In all his life, no matter where he'd gone or what he'd done, he'd never wanted for friends.

 _So why do I feel so alone?_

He didn't have time to wallow in melancholy. The office door opened and a group of service personnel wearing several different uniforms filed out. Bucky tapped his booted foot as two of the younger men loitered behind to talk to the blonde.

"You can go in now, Sergeant," the woman said. She was already beaming a smile at one of the officers, as if Bucky didn't even exist.

The office was large, and each wall was decorated in its own unique way. One was covered with aerial photographs of Europe, and had been wildly defaced with a red marker pen indicating troop movements and enemy emplacements. Another wall held complex equations taped haphazardly on bits of paper and even a couple of napkins, their coffee-ring stains evidence of their original use. Bucky recognised Howard Stark's handwriting, though some of the equations were written in an unfamiliar hand.

The third wall held photographs clearly taken clandestinely. Most were blurry, the forms vague and shadowed, a few wearing Nazi uniforms; more wearing those of HYDRA. As Bucky scanned them, he picked out the scrunched-up face of Zola, and his hand involuntarily curled into a fist. Next to Zola was a taller man, dark haired, with a coldness in his eyes. A man Bucky had seen the _true_ face of: Johann Schmidt. A monster the likes the world had never seen before and, if Bucky had anything to do with it, would never see again.

The final wall, the one which held the door, was unadormed save for two framed pictures. One was a portrait photograph of the president, and another was a painting of the Statue of Liberty. _Home_. Bucky's eyes were drawn to her face. Would he ever see her again? She was the one lady who waited for every soldier in this war. How much would he pay to see her still standing?

"Agent Carter, have you done something different with your hair?" Phillips asked from behind his desk.

"Sir, Agent Carter said it would be okay if I had five minutes of your meeting time," Bucky explained. "I wanted to talk to you about something important." He pulled the letter ordering his extended furlough from his pocket, and placed it on the desk. Phillips glanced at it briefly and offered an unsurprised grunt. "You knew about this, Colonel?"

"Of course I knew about it. Who do you think got the initial medical reports?"

"Sir, you have to change the orders!" Bucky stepped forward and managed to scrounge up a measure of calmness. He forced it into his voice. "I don't need rest, sir. I need to get back into the fight."

"The orders are final, they can't be changed. The paperwork's already been stamped."

"But you need experienced soldiers in this war. If—"

"Sergeant, I need experienced soldiers, but I also need men who are fit for duty—"

"Which I am!"

"Not according to your medical. Do you know what would happen if I sent a man unfit for combat back to the front lines? If you were to screw up and get men killed, it would be on my head. And you are not worth my head, Sergeant."

Bucky opened his mouth to protest, but Phillips charged right on.

"This is the way it has to be, Sergeant Barnes. Take a rest. God knows, you've earned it. Go home. Spend time with your loved ones. Then, in six months, or a year, whenever the medics say you're adequately recovered from what Schmidt and his goons put you through, you can return to combat."

Bucky unclenched his fist to stop his nails digging painfully into his palm. Phillips didn't understand. He _couldn_ _'t_ go home. Not yet. He couldn't face his family. Not like this. Hell, he'd even settle for something away from the front lines, as long as he could be useful.

"Sir, there has to be something I can do here. Something that doesn't put men at risk. Some way I can contribute."

"You can. Go home. Rest up. Gather your strength. Like you said, I need experienced soldiers. If you like, I can see about getting you a spot as a drill sergeant at Camp Lehigh after three months of rest. You can put the new recruits through their paces."

Bucky's heart dropped. _Drill sergeant_? Yelling at enlisted men to make them run faster? Waking them at four o'clock for a gruelling crawl through the mud? Teaching kids how to hold guns without shooting themselves? Encouraging them to hit stationary targets so that they believed they were capable of defending themselves against genocidal Nazis? He couldn't imagine he'd make a very good drill sergeant. Like Agent Carter, he wasn't a very good liar.

"Sir, please—"

"I'm sorry, Sergeant, but you have your orders. As for your debarkation…" Phillips rifled through a pile of papers and came out with one that listed military ship activity at London's docks. "The _S.S. Constance_ is returning to NYPOE next Tuesday at o'six hundred. You're report two hours in advance and present your official papers which you'll receive by courier within the next two days. Understood?"

"Yessir," Bucky lied. He didn't understand. Why was he being punished like this? Was it because he hadn't been able to free himself and the others from Krausberg? Because he'd been captured? It wasn't fair! Plenty of soldiers who got captured by the enemy weren't sent home.

 _It_ _'s because of Steve. The brass don't want you influencing their new hero. They want to be sure his loyalty lies with them._

It was a terrible thought, and he immediately felt guilty for even considering it. This wasn't Steve's fault. It had nothing to do with Steve. In fact, if it wasn't for Steve, Bucky would still be back in that work camp, probably still undergoing _stage three_ of Zola's tests, whatever their purpose.

Bucky saluted and about-faced. There was nothing more he could do or say to persuade Phillips to change his mind. Now, he would have to go to the source of the problem.

The medical centre was bustling despite it being almost dinner time. Doctors and nurses carried clip-boards and boxes whilst orderlies pushed patients in wheelchairs and on cold metal gurneys that made Bucky shiver when he saw them.

This time, Bucky didn't stand on formality. If he was to be shipped back home, what did it matter if he did things in an unconventional way? They were hardly going to court-martial him.

He sidestepped the front desk before one of the clerks could even ask his name, and pushed his way past three nurses into the examination area. Two or three doctors were present, giving check-ups to soldiers, and Bucky spotted the doctor who'd sealed his fate. He strode into the cubicle, ignoring the shirtless soldier sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Doc, you gotta re-examine me," he said. "Tell the brass I'm fit for duty."

The doctor's face was thunderous. "I don't know who you are, but you can't just barge your way in here and make demands of me. I'm in the middle of a medical examination here."

"My name is Sergeant James Barnes. You examined me a couple of days ago and told my CO I'm not fit for duty. That was a mistake."

"Sergeant, I've seen over a hundred soldiers in the past three days," the doctor glowered. "And I don't make mistakes. If I've signed you off, then you're _not_ fit for duty despite what you may think. There will be no further examination, unless it's a psychological evaluation which, judging by your current demeanour, you stand no chance of passing. Now, are you going to leave peacefully, or do I need to send for the MPs?"

"Please, doc, just gimme another chance. I can't go home," he pleaded. "Examine me again, that's all I ask."

"Request denied. Now, leave the hospital, or I'll have you removed."

There was nothing he could do but seethe as he left. Of course the doctor wouldn't examine him again. He'd find Bucky in perfect health and be forced to admit he'd made a mistake. It would make him look foolish. Incompetent.

He mulled over his problem as he made his way to the _Fiddle_ , where he was due to meet Steve and a few of the guys for drinks. Alcohol was one of the few things that could banish the nightmares, if just for a short time, but right now, Bucky was in no mood for drinking. How could he sit there and drink when less than a week from now, he'd be forced to leave his friends to the fight? What if they thought him a coward? And _how_ could he get out of it?

The _Fiddle_ was packed to the rafters, and Bucky had to fight his way through the crowd. Dugan and Falsworth had managed to grab their usual table, but of the others, there was no sign. Dugan waved Bucky over, and gestured to one of the spare pints of ale.

"Saved you a drink or two," said Dugan as Bucky slid into a seat.

"Or four or five," Falsworth added with a smirk. "The proprietor wouldn't allow us to claim such a large table with only two of us drinking. We had to order a round to assure him we were expecting company."

Bucky nodded. "Where is everyone?"

"Dernier said he had some top-secret French Resistance business to attend to," Falsworth explained. "Personally, I don't believe that. Jones is out looking for a souvenir to send home to his family as proof he's safe in England for now. Morita's stuffing his face at that chip shop down the road, and the Captain's being measured up for his new G.I. uniform."

"I remember a time when most clothes wouldn't fit Steve because he was so skinny they hung off him like drapes."

"Hard to believe he was ever that small," Dugan mused.

"Believe it. I have pictures that I could show you, if we were back home."

"Got any embarrassing childhood stories we ought to know about?"

"Sure, but you're going to have to ply me with something stronger than this piss-water," Bucky told him.

Morita arrived before Dugan could put in another order with Lizzie, followed a few minutes later by Jones. The Private brought out a paper bag and showed off the postcards of Big Ben he'd bought to send home to his family.

"Wish I could send something nicer for my Mom," he said, "but the shelves were pretty bare. I had to go to three different shops just to find postcards."

"You got any family over here, Monty?" asked Morita.

Falsworth wrinkled his nose at the much-disliked nickname, but nodded in confirmation.

"I spoke to my mother the day after we arrived in England, and I've had a telegram from my father. Most of my family are serving in one way or another. Uncle Charlie's a General in the RAF, my cousin Reginald is in the Navy, and my other cousin, Thomas, is an officer in the Army. Then there's my second-cousin Beatrice, who's a Wren, and—"

"Excuse me," said Bucky. He nodded to a pretty brunette at the bar. "I fancy my chances tonight."

The guys chuckled as Bucky made his way over to the bar. All the talk of family was heading into territory he didn't care to visit right now. Family talk was too much like being-shipped-home talk, and that was a talk he wanted to avoid until he'd sorted out his little problem.

Because he needed to put on a show for the guys who were inevitably watching, he took the empty seat beside the brunette and offered her his most winning smile.

"I haven't seen you here before," he said. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Thanks, but I'm not here to drink," she said. Her accent was American, which probably made her a Red Cross nurse, or a WAC yeoman.

"You've come to a pub to not-drink?"

"I'm waiting for someone."

"Ah." Just his luck. "You're waiting for your fella?"

"No, I'm waiting for Captain America." She pulled a notepad and pen from her purse. "I heard he drinks here on some evenings, and I was hoping to meet him. Get his autograph."

"Oh. In that case, you might wanna go wait with those guys at that table. They're his friends, I'm sure they can put in a good word for you."

She beamed widely. "Thank you!"

When she'd gone, Bucky ordered a glass of whisky from Lizzie and knocked it back. He ordered a second and took this one more slowly, savouring each burning sip. It was only when he reached his third glass, just after Dernier showed up and joined the guys and the dame, that Bucky remembered he hadn't had anything to eat since waking up.

For once, he wasn't hungry. His predicament seemed to have unsettled his stomach to the point that he had no desire for food. On his fourth glass, he remembered he was still supposed to be toasting the memories of the men he'd served with and lost. Who was next? Danzig? Weiss?

Thoughts of his senior fellow sergeant made his stomach churn with guilt. Sergeant Weiss would never go home to his family, and here Bucky was complaining about being sent back to the States. Maybe he was looking at this all wrong. Maybe he ought to be grateful that he'd get to see his family again, especially since they'd already been incorrectly informed of his death once already. It sure would make his mom happy to see him. What did it matter that he didn't feel ready to see them again? There were more people to consider than just himself.

 _And that_ _'s why you feel alone despite being surrounded by friends. Back on that table in Krausberg, you put them in your place. You would've let them suffer. You don't deserve them._

He knocked back his fourth Scotch and ordered a fifth. Maybe he'd toast memories tomorrow.

There was a commotion behind him, and Bucky didn't have to turn around to know that Steve had arrived. Even out of uniform, there were enough soldiers who recognised him. The brunette squealed in delight as Steve gave in to her request for an autograph. At least somebody was having a good time.

When a heavy hand was clapped on his shoulder, Bucky jumped and spilled some of his whisky on the bar. He fixed a scowl onto his face and aimed it at the man sliding onto the stool beside him. Steve offered an apologetic wince and removed his hand. He seemed to forget just how strong he was, sometimes.

"Are you okay, Buck? The guys said you've been drinking alone for over an hour."

"Huh. I didn't realise it'd been that long. Guess time really does fly when you're having fun."

"You didn't answer my question," his friend accused.

"Didn't realise I had to give you a daily sitrep."

"Humour me, Buck. Please?"

Steve gave him the ol' injured puppy eyes he'd always been so good at, and Bucky sighed. Sooner or later, Steve was going to find out about his orders, but maybe he had some suggestions about getting out of being sent back home.

He pulled the letter from his pocket and handed it over. He followed Steve's darting eyes as he read the letter twice. Steve had never been good at hiding his emotions; he wore his heart on his sleeve and his thoughts on his face. He tried very hard to disguise the disappointment, but the smile on his lips was too false to be real.

"Maybe this is a good thing, Buck. You could go home and see your family again. Get some rest and come back fighting fit."

"I'm already fighting fit. I am!" A few soldiers glanced over at his shout, and he lowered his voice. "I'm not ready to go home, Steve. Not with HYDRA out there. They've already struck once on American soil, and there's nobody but us to stop them doing it again. I just need a couple of weeks to get myself together. "

"Want me to talk to Phillips for you? Maybe I could get him to change his mind."

Bucky bristled at the suggestion. "I already talked to him. He said the orders couldn't be changed. I even went to the doctor who performed my medical, to try and get him to examine me again, but he point blank refused. Hmm… maybe I should'a put a gun to his head." Wells would've done it that way, he was sure. "Joke," he added when he spotted his friend's expression.

Steve's brow furrowed heroically. "Maybe I could see if Senator Brandt could pull some strings and—"

"No. You told me those politicians don't give anything for free, and I don't want you indebted to them even more than you already are. He'd pull some strings now only to pull _your_ strings later. Besides, this is my problem, and I want to fix it myself."

"You don't have to do everything alone, Buck. Why don't you come and join the rest of the guys? Maybe we can put our heads together and figure something out."

Bucky shook his head. "I want some time to think this thing through. Please don't tell the guys about it. Not yet. I plan on getting those orders changed before I have to tell anyone else."

Steve finally relented. "Alright. But if you want help, all you have to do is ask."

When Steve returned to the table, Bucky ordered another drink. If he couldn't think his way out of his problem, maybe he could find the answer at the bottom of a glass. And if one glass didn't herald any answers, there were plenty more glasses in the bar.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Steve paced the office of the USO and tried to convince himself that he was doing the right thing. He hadn't slept at all last night, forgoing that luxury in order to mull over his best friend's new problem. He'd tried to put a positive spin on the orders and keep up a brave face. As hard as it would be to see Bucky shipped back home after their recent reunion, he truly did believe that New York was the best place for his friend to recover. Bucky tried to downplay his time in the work camp, but he'd been tortured for days or weeks, and he was in a bad way. Most soldiers by this point would've done anything to get home to their families, and he just didn't understand why Bucky was so opposed to the idea.

The fresh aroma of coffee heralded the arrival of Kevin. Dressed in a fine suit and polished shoes, Senator Brandt's most trusted assistant called out a greeting to his secretary and stepped into his office to find Steve standing nervously in the centre of the room.

"Steve," Kevin said, with a smile that actually seemed quite genuine. He didn't appear to be holding a grudge over losing his biggest star. "I never thought I'd coax you back into this office, much less see you here of your own accord. Have you changed your mind? You know we'd welcome you back with open arms."

"Actually…" Steve hesitated. By doing this, he was going against Bucky's wishes. But he was also fulfilling Bucky's wishes. Whether he did this or not, he couldn't do wrong for doing right. He took a deep, steadying breath. "I have a favour to ask."

"A favour, of little ol' me?" Kevin asked with a grin.

"Of Senator Brandt. You see, I have this friend, Sergeant Barnes—"

"Yeah, the pal you disobeyed orders and almost got court-martialled for. I remember."

"—and he's been ordered back home for a recovery period."

Kevin nodded in sympathy. "I saw the state of the guy when you pulled him outta Krausberg. I'm not surprised. It's for the best."

"I agree. But he doesn't wanna go. And I'm afraid if he's pushed into it, he's gonna do something stupid." _Don_ _'t do anything stupid_ , Bucky had once told him. Now, Steve wished he could feed those words to his friend.

"So how can we help?"

"I was hoping Senator Brandt could use his influence to pull some strings with the brass and get Bucky's orders changed."

Kevin sucked in air through his teeth. "That's a pretty tall order, Steve. Senator Brandt has some sway with you because he funds the SSR. Without his backing, Project Rebirth never would've taken flight. But to meddle of the affairs of the Army and change an order handed down from the top… well, that's going to take some doing."

"I'll do anything necessary to make it happen," Steve assured him.

"That's very noble." Kevin glanced over Steve as if assessing his worth. It was a gesture that immediately put him in mind of Agent Carter, only, her assessing gaze was more benign. "Alright, how about this? We'll scratch your back now, and you scratch our back later? An IOU, if you will."

Steve nodded. He'd expected as much, and if that was what it took, it was a price he would gladly pay.

"Great. Then gimme a few days to work a little magic, and I'll see what I can do."

"It has to be quick," Steve told him. "Bucky's been ordered to report for debarkation on Tuesday. That doesn't leave much time."

With a knowing smile, Kevin clapped a hand on Steve's shoulder. "Don't worry, pal. Oiling the wheels of the machine makes them turn much faster. You just leave everything to me."


	75. A Wing and a Prayer

We Were Soldiers

 _75\. A Wing and a Prayer_

The air of the hall was heavy with gravitas, and the only sound which broke the reverential silence was the mumble of worshippers offering prayers for the fallen and the lost. Bucky averted his eyes from their faces, because all he saw on them was grief so deep that it cut him down to his heart. He imagined that his family had gone to church and mourned like this, after learning of his 'death'.

He took a seat on an empty pew, and spent several moments taking in the decor. It wasn't much different to the church he went to back home, except this one had blackout curtains covering its elaborate leaded stained-glass windows.

He'd wanted to visit St. Paul's Cathedral, the tallest building in London, but the Cathedral was closed to the public due to damage sustained during the _Blitz_. The church he found himself in now was nice enough, but nothing to write home about. It wasn't a national treasure.

For five days, he'd racked his brain trying to figure out a way of getting around his orders. Ironically, enemy fortifications were easier to overcome than his own military's chain of command. He'd tried thinking like Wells, and Davies, and Gusty, but he drew blanks every time. Dugan and the others had been told to expect their combat orders soon; Bucky was the only one who'd been told to go home, and he was still keeping that fact a secret from everybody but Steve.

Closing his eyes, he pressed his hands together in front of his chest and directed his thoughts to the altar at the front of the room.

 _Lord, I could really use a miracle right now,_ he thought. _I know I got no right to be asking for things, not after it_ _'s been so long since I last attended a service that wasn't a funeral, but things have been kinda busy down here. It's no excuse, and I'm sorry, but I really need help._

 _A couple of weeks ago, I was in a bad place. I tried to take my own life to end the pain. I wished for others to take my place and be hurt instead of me, and now I have to atone for my sins. I need to stay in this fight, to make amends for my wishing suffering on others. That_ _'s not what your son did, when they tortured him, but I'm a weaker man. If I go home, I won't get chance to make up for that. I won't be able to look my family in their eyes. When I look at myself in the mirror, I don't like what I see._

 _I need help, and I don_ _'t know where else to turn. Tomorrow, I'm being shipped back home for recovery, but I can't go. Not yet. I've thought of everything, and nothing I can think of stands a chance of working. The brass won't listen to a simple soldier, but maybe they'll listen to you. I know that staying in the war is dangerous, but I need to make things right. If you can make it happen, I promise I'll do right by you from now on. I'll atone for my sins, and I'll live a better life. I swear it._

He opened his eyes, and waited. Around him, the mourners continued to light candles and pray. If God had even heard his plea above all the others, there was no sign. Perhaps it was too noisy for him to hear a single prayer above the din, no matter how well-intentioned it was.

When he stepped outside the church, it was almost dark. How long had he been inside that place? It had felt like mere moments, but the sky didn't darken that quickly, not even in England.

He put it out of his mind and began a weary trudge back to the hotel. He was supposed to meet Steve and a few of the guys later for beers in the _Fiddle_ , and now he would finally have to tell them about his orders. He was out of time, and couldn't delay it any longer. Telling them… it made it all real. He hadn't packed his bag, but now he'd have to. He'd have to pack his bag and tell his friends he wouldn't be there to fight with them in the future. Then he'd have to have one last drink with them, and get an early night, so that he didn't oversleep and miss his boat.

 _Maybe I_ should _oversleep._

It wouldn't work. Phillips would just order him shipped out on the next transport, and he'd probably throw Bucky in a cell and have him escorted to the docks by MPs, just to ensure he didn't 'oversleep' again.

 _I could go AWOL._

And do what? He wouldn't be able to serve with the Army. He wouldn't be able to fight on the front lines, and make HYDRA pay for what they'd done. He'd be on the run, and he couldn't speak French or Italian, so it wasn't as if he could even join one of the foreign Resistance groups. His only use was as a soldier, and they wouldn't let him do that.

He stepped into the Strand's lobby at full dark, and doffed his army hat. The check-in clerk, a grey-haired, rather wizened guy called Thomas, beckoned him over.

"Letter for you, Sergeant Barnes. Arrived by courier just after you left."

Bucky accepted the letter and examined the envelope. His name and temporary accommodation was typed on the front, and it was stamped with the eagle. Probably another order telling him he'd been fully demobilised. That would be just his luck.

Thomas handed him a pearl-handled letter opener that was probably worth more than all of Bucky's possessions combined, and he slid it under the flap, prising it open. He pulled out the letter, and read it. His heart leapt in his chest, and he read it again. Giddy with joy, he reached over the counter and pulled Thomas into a rib-crushing hug.

"He's answered my prayers, Thomas!" Bucky laughed. Tears leaked from his eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks. "He's answered my prayers!"

"Can't… breathe," the man gasped.

"Oops, sorry."

Bucky let go of Thomas and raced back the way he'd just come, letter in hand. He tore down the street, dodged the downtrodden Londoners as they made their way home after a long day of toil, and narrowly avoided being run over by a car. By the time he reached the _Fiddle_ , his lungs were aflame and his legs felt like jelly, but he ignored both, and pushed his way through the milling crowd until he found Steve sitting with Morita and Jones.

"Look!" Bucky said, thrusting the letter at Steve's chest. "I told you I was fit for duty!"

Steve took the letter, and read it aloud.

" _Sergeant James Barnes, following your recent orders to be returned to the United States for a recovery period following your ordeals under enemy incarceration, it has been discovered that a clerical error was made regarding your medical record. The examinations results assigned to you in fact belonged to a different service personnel, resulting in an incorrect order being generated for your immediate return home. Owing to this error, the previous order has been rescinded, and you are instead instructed to undergo two weeks of rest with the remainder of the troops freed from the enemy facility in which you were held._

" _I understand that you will be undoubtedly disappointed by this change in orders, and that you were in all likelihood eager to see your friends and family again, however, please be assured that your time will come soon. Until then, I am sure you will complete your duties to the best of your professional abilities._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Chief of Staff, Gen. C. Marshall._ _"_

"What the hell?" said Morita. "You had orders to be sent home, and you didn't tell us?"

"Because it was a mistake," Bucky told him triumphantly. "I knew it all along."

"Damn," said Jones. "I wish I had a chance to go home and see my mom again. That's too bad, Barnes, it looks like you're stuck here with the rest of us."

"It won't be forever. We'll be sent back to the front soon enough," Bucky assured him.

"I'm happy for you, Buck," said Steve. He handed the letter back. "And you were right after all. I'm sorry for doubting you."

"I guess even perfect super-soldiers can make mistakes."

"I'm not perfect," Steve objected.

"And he sure does make mistakes." Jones grinned, displaying two rows of white teeth. "You just missed him telling Agent Carter that she has nice feet."

A faint pink blush suffused Steve's cheeks. "I meant I liked the shoes she was wearing. They were new. I just… get a little tongue-tied around dames."

"Same old Steve," Bucky chuckled. He shoved his new orders into his pocket and took a seat at the table. Now that he wasn't being forced to leave, it was as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He wouldn't even complain about the beer being flat and warm, if it meant he got to head back to the fight. "I could tell you guys some stories."

Steve cleared his throat. "Speaking of orders, I've just got mine. I'm heading out to one of the British training camps at the end of the week, to undergo my basic training."

"And a very high quality of training it will be," said Falsworth. He appeared from the crowd with Dugan in tow. Of Dernier, there was no sign. "I think you'll find the standard unrivalled in the civilised world."

"It can't be any worse than Camp McCoy," Bucky added. "I don't think there was a single day where the temperature rose above thirty. Half the time we had to crawl through mud, it was ice. Each morning, before doing laps, we had to dig ourselves out of our barracks, and cut a path through the snow drifts."

"I think you'll find British training facilities offer their own unique challenges," Falsworth said with an air of smug. "Have they told you where you'll be training?"

Steve pulled a square of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. "Some place called Pirbright."

"Really? Hmm. It's quite cushy there. I'm sure you'll enjoy your time at the barracks."

"Some people just get all the luck," Dugan sniffed. "I bet there's queues of pretty ladies just waiting for Captain America to arrive so they can get his autograph."

"You're not still sore about that, are you?" Jones chuckled. "Besides, I thought you had your eye on Lizzy." He gestured to the red-headed barmaid busy pulling pints of warm beer.

"That doesn't mean I don't wish I had hordes of adoring fans."

"Fame is overrated," Steve assured him.

"I dunno," mused Morita, "I wouldn't mind five minutes in the spotlight."

"Feel free to head down to the USO office, they're itching to get their hands on new talent."

"Well, I can carry a tune, but I doubt I'm the kinda guy the troops want to be entertained by."

Bucky let their banter wash over him as he tried to relax into his chair. Something still felt wrong. He'd had his orders changed, and that had made him briefly happy, but now the happiness was wearing off and he was left with a familiar sense of unease. Maybe he just need a good night's sleep. Yeah. He'd have a few glasses of whisky to help him along, and sleep off whatever was bothering him deep down.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Danny used his left hand to pull the collar of his loaned jacket up around his neck. The wind nipped at his bare skin, and he shivered beneath his layers.

"Come," said Adalina. Wrapped in layers of her own, she gestured at the drifts of snow, and the poor trail cut through them. She went ahead, kicking snow aside as she walked, forging a deeper path for him. Normally, the walk to the goat barn took thirty seconds, but with the snow burying everything, it took much longer.

"I'm not sure about this," he called as he followed her through the snow.

"Mama said you must use arm," she told him over her shoulder. Though the snow clung to her skirt, she didn't slow her pace. "This is good way."

"I _have_ been using my arm."

She snorted in that same way her mother did when she didn't believe Danny's claims. "Fastening buttons does not count."

"I'm working up to brushing my hair, then my teeth."

That claim went down like a lead zeppelin.

He smelt the goat shed before they reached it, a scent of dung and hay and something he could only vaguely define as _animal smell_. It was the same on his uncle's ranch; the scent of horses permeated the air, seeping into clothes, and skin, and bed linen. The goats had a similar smell, though it wasn't quite as strong. Maybe because they were smaller, or maybe because it was winter.

Next, he heard them. Their bleats were loud enough to be heard outside the wooden walls, and held an insistent quality to them. Hungry, probably. Maybe bored of being cooped up in the barn. In summer, Rosa or Adalina took them up the mountain, to the pasture where they fed on rich meadow grasses. Danny could imagine the barn was small, boring and confining to creatures used to roaming free during the day. It was the same on his uncle's ranch. When the horses were brought in for sorting, breeding, and sale, they quickly became restless in the stables.

Adalina pushed the door open, and both the smell and the sound grew louder. The goats stuck their heads through the bars of their stalls and cried so loud that Danny would've covered his ears, if he'd been able to lift his right arm that high.

"I will show you," Adalina said. She grabbed a pail and a very low stool. "Then I will throw hay from… above." She gestured up at the hayloft. Her English was coming along well—better than his Italian—but she struggled with nouns.

Danny watched as she opened one of the stalls and fitted a goat with a small head-collar. She led it out of the stall, and closed the door behind her, so the other three goats couldn't get out. By now, the bleating had quietened somewhat, which was a blessing to his ears.

Adalina led the goat to the pail, and it stood patiently whilst she settled herself on the stool. When she was comfortable, she leant down and grabbed a teat in each hand, squeezing until milk began to flow. If somebody had told Danny, six months ago, that he'd be learning how to milk a goat, he would've laughed in disbelief. War was a strange thing.

"Now, you try." Adalina relinquished her seat, and moved around to hold the goat's head.

Taking a deep breath, Danny settled himself onto the stool and winced at the position it put his shoulder in. He no longer wore his arm in a sling, and Rosa insisted he do small exercises each day, to work the muscles and allow blood to flow around his broken bone.

He decided to use his left arm first, to get the hang of it before trying to bring his right arm into play. Reaching down, he grabbed hold of one of the teats hanging from the goat's udder. It was warm to the touch, squishy, but also hard.

The first time he squeezed, nothing happened, so he tried again. After his sixth attempt, he turned to Adalina. "It's not working."

"You must squeeze harder."

"Harder?! But I don't wanna hurt her!"

"You won't. Baby goats very strong in mouth. Your hands must be strong, like baby goat. Later, when stronger, I show you cheese press. For now, you must bring milk."

"Bring milk," he muttered. If only the guys back in the 107th could see him now; they'd be laughing their asses off!

He squeezed harder, as instructed, and was rewarded with a few dribbles of white liquid. It wasn't a pleasant experience. With each squeeze, he could feel liquid moving beneath the warm skin, the pressure building slowly.

"It hurts her to not be milked," Adalina told him. "You are helping her."

"This is revolting, you know." He'd spent summers mucking out stables, picking out hooves and applying lotion to breezefly bites, but he'd never milked an animal before, and he never wanted to.

Adalina cocked her head, her dark hair falling around her face. "Re-vol-ting?"

"Yeah, you know. Unpleasant. Horrible. Not nice."

She laughed, the sort of happy, unrestrained, innocent laugh that a guy could fall in love with. A guy in his right mind, anyway. The kinda guy Danny had been before shipping out to this insane asylum.

"There is no milk in New York?"

"Yeah, but it comes in bottles or cartons, which is right and proper for milk."

"How it get in bottles?"

"Fairy magic," he insisted. There was definitely none of this unpleasant _milking_ business involved.

Adalina merely laughed again. "You milk. I feed."

Danny kept his gaze down as Adalina climbed the ladder to the hayloft and began pitching hay down from above. Not that it was difficult; the milking was taking up most of his focus and all of his effort. After five minutes, he'd worked up a sweat that was prickling his skin. Five minutes after that, he doffed his coat, and Adalina instructed him to bring out another goat.

He replaced the animal, though he struggled to handle the headcollar with only one good hand. Horses were bigger, but they were easier. The goats darted their heads this way and that, grabbing at strands of hay, doing everything they could to avoid capture. By the time he'd wrestled the second goat into submission and got it into position above the pail, he was positively dripping with sweat.

Milking goats was not as easy as he'd first assumed, and he quickly gained a new appreciation for both Adalina and Rosa's strength and stamina. They did this every day, in all weather, on top of taking care of the goats, making the cheese and taking care of the house and cooking. They did it without the conveniences of New York. They had no electric freezer, or even a cold-box; just a cool cellar beneath the house. There was no grocery store and no Five & Dime, and commodities were made within the village and traded for with goods and services.

"Use your other hand, too," Adalina called down to him.

Danny tried. Lifting his arm was painful. Squeezing was agony. Soon his muscles were trembling with exertion, and his lungs burned as if he'd run a marathon. Finally, Adalina took pity on him. She brought out another goat, and replaced him on the stool.

"You comb them," she said, handing him a small comb from the pocket of her pinafore.

The goats were happy to be combed. They chewed mouthfuls of hay whilst Danny brushed out the knots and checked over their coats. The goats, he decided, had a cushy life. Wake up, eat, be milked, get brushed, relax in the field or the barn, eat again, sleep… yeah, the life of a goat was an easy one. Easier than the life of a soldier, or an accountant.

"Now we are done," Adalina declared at last.

Danny stood up and dusted dry grass seeds off his trousers. His shirt was soaked and he felt like he had after his first day of basic training, back at Camp Ashfort. Adalina laughed at him as soon as she saw him.

"What's so funny?" he demanded.

"You look like… I don't know English word. _Spaventapasseri._ "

Danny didn't know the English word, either, but when she reached up to pluck several long strands of straw from his hair, he could guess at what she meant. It was funny, in a way. The image of a scarecrow made him think of _The Wizard of Oz_ , which made him think of that time Barnes had been drugged by Nazis and likened Danny to the Tin Man, the character questing with Dorothy to find himself a heart.

 _I guess neither of us knew at the time how apt that comparison was. I never knew what love was, until now. Kind of a shame it_ _'s not some beautiful dame who made me feel it._

Adalina shot him a coy glance through her thick lashes as she pulled a final strand of straw from his hair. "You have a… ah… _innamorata_ , at home?"

"A what?"

Pink spots appeared on her cheeks. "A… wife?" She shook her head. "Lady?"

"Oh. Er. No, not exactly. I mean, I've had girlfriends before, but I don't have one right now." Alice, his last girlfriend, had started talking about baby names. Danny had ended it the very next day. In his opinion, kids were an unfortunate byproduct of what ought to be a very happy and carefree relationship. A few of his friends back home had gotten married and started families, and they'd ended up looking haggard and bored. When a guy had responsibilities like that, he couldn't just do what he wanted. It wasn't the life for Danny.

"Why not?"

"Because finding the right dame isn't easy."

"Maybe you find right… dame… in Italy."

"Maybe," he said, but he doubted it. His stupid traitor heart filled his equally traitor head with thoughts of Barnes too often. In all his life, he'd never felt like this about anyone before. He hadn't known feelings like this _could_ exist. There would have to be one heck of a dame, to make him feel like this about her.

Adalina smiled and captured his good arm in hers, dragging him towards the door of the barn. "Come, we wash, then you can tell me what dames are like in America."

Danny's heart dipped a little in his chest. He'd seen the look in Adalina's eyes before. The early stages of a crush, when everything was exciting and new. Somehow, he had to find a way of discouraging her without hurting her feelings. He just hoped the snow would clear quickly, or this might prove to be a long, awkward winter.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Steve wound his way through the crowd, issuing quiet apologies to people he jostled. Over his shoulder he carried his backpack and sleeping roll, whilst behind him came Bucky, Dugan and Falsworth, each of them carrying some of his smaller items. He'd tried to tell them he didn't need a send-off, but they'd insisted.

A conductor directed them to the correct platform, where a soot-covered steam engine waited patiently for its passengers to board. Steve stopped beside the first carriage and turned to face his friends.

"Thanks for helping with my stuff, guys."

"I could tell you needed the help," Dugan grinned. He handed over Steve's duffel bag, while Falsworth passed over his helmet and rifle.

"I put this together for you last night," Falsworth said. From his pocket, he pulled a small notebook. Steve opened it at the first page and read the first line of words.

"Gas, petrol. Cookie, biscuit. Jumping jack, star jump. Truck, lorry."

"They're common words translated from American into English, to help you communicate with your fellow recruits."

"Thanks, Major, that's very thoughtful of you."

"And I got you these," Bucky said, handing over two packets of cigarettes.

Steve lifted a quizzical eyebrow at his best friend. "You know I don't smoke."

"Trust me, just keep hold of them. You'll find they come in useful."

He pocketed the smokes. "Thanks. I guess I still have a lot to learn."

"Just remember that you're still part of the U.S. Army," Dugan told him. "Show these tea-drinking Englishmen some real American gumption."

"I'll do my best," Steve assured him.

"See you in twelve weeks, Captain," said Falsworth. "And don't worry, Morita's promised to keep your seat at the table warm."

By silent agreement, Falsworth and Dugan retreated towards the stairs to the platform, leaving Steve to say goodbye to his best friend.

"Take care of yourself, won't you?" he asked.

Bucky snorted. "You know how good I am at taking care of people."

"Yeah, but I'm not talking about people, I'm talking about _you_." Bucky had spent his whole life looking after his siblings, his friends and Steve, but he tended to forget about himself at times. He was also stubborn, and resisted the attempts of others to help him out. Knowing that, Steve had met with Falsworth the night before, and asked him to surreptitiously keep an eye on Bucky.

"Yes Mom, I'll be sure to brush my teeth every night before bed."

"Not forgetting scrubbing beneath your fingernails," Steve nodded seriously.

That got a grin out of Bucky. "Remember when your mom made us scrub beneath our nails before eating dinner? One time, she said my nails weren't clean enough, and threatened to scrub them herself."

"My mom took hygiene very seriously. Part of being a nurse." And part of having a son who got sick at the drop of a hat. Mom's hands were often red and raw from the temperature of the water she washed the bedsheets at. It was a shame she couldn't see Steve now; he thought she'd be proud of the man he'd become. He brushed his hand against his breast pocket, feeling the small bump of his mom's locket within.

"Last call for boarding," a nearby uniformed man called out. "Waterloo to Weymouth, all aboard."

"Guess I better find myself a seat before they leave without me."

"Don't let those drill sergeants push you around just because you're not a Limey," Bucky said. "And don't go shooting your mouth off and starting fights."

"I never shoot my mouth off," Steve fibbed. "And it's the other guys who start fights."

"Riiiight." Before Steve could object again, Bucky pulled him into a surprisingly tight hug. "I can't believe you're going to be away for Thanksgiving."

"Our first Thanksgiving apart since we were kids," Steve agreed. The Barnes family had always invited Steve and his mom over for Thanksgiving dinner. After Mom had died, he'd been invited over every Christmas, too. He'd tried to tell Mrs. Barnes that he didn't want to put anyone out, but she was even more stubborn than Bucky, sometimes.

After breaking the three second rule, Bucky released him. "Go on, or you'll be running to Pirbright. And I bet you'd get there before the train, even with a full load to carry."

The piercing whistle of the train about to depart lent weight to Bucky's prediction. Steve grabbed all his gear and jogged to the nearest door. He climbed aboard the carriage and glanced back over his shoulder just as the train began to pull out of the station. Bucky waved, but Steve had no free hands to wave back. Instead, he watched until his friend was out of even his sight, then pushed his way deeper into the carriage. The next twelve weeks were gonna feel like forever.

The first carriage was packed with civilians, so he moved on to the second. All of the seats here were taken, either by civilians or army personnel. Steve offered around of "excuse me's" as he accidentally jostled people with his bags. In the third carriage, he found empty seats. He picked the closest one, stashed as many of his belongings as he could fit into the overhead compartment, and plopped down heavily onto the seat next to the window.

London passed by, a maze of grey and brown beneath a cloud-littered sky. The city-scape wasn't much like that of New York. Everything here seemed smaller, more restrained. The buildings were lower, the streets were narrower, the boats on the river were less grand.

 _I wonder when America outgrew Europe,_ he thought. _And whether either place will ever be the same, after this war._

He caught snatches of conversation from the soldiers around him. One pair behind him seemed to be discussing the girls they'd left behind.

"…an' she has a right pair o' Scotches on 'er…"

Steve pulled Falsworth's book from his pocket, but there wasn't anything about _Scotches_ in there. With a quiet sigh, he put the book away. Maybe he'd find some kind Englishman willing to translate for him for the next twelve weeks.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

" _Next stop, Brookwood Station!"_ a conductor called down the train. _"Brookwood Station coming up!"_

Steve grabbed his belongings and joined the queue of British soldiers waiting by the door. The train wheels squealed as the brakes slowed its momentum, and Steve grabbed hold of a handrail to stop himself sliding into the nearest body. The men who had spent the past hour bragging about how many Nazis they were going to shoot when they reached the front lines were now suspiciously silent, their faces uncertain.

Then the train stopped fully, the door was opened, and a sea of men spilled out onto the platform. Out here, able to see them more clearly, Steve realised how young they all were. Most looked no older than eighteen or nineteen… the same age as Bucky's younger brother, Charlie. And at the thought of these men shooting, killing, dying, his stomach turned.

On the platform, soldiers milled around as they waited for instruction. Steve drew a few curious glances, and after a few minutes, one of the recruits ambled over. His sandy-blond hair was a shade or two lighter than Steve's, and he didn't have the same jumped-in-the-deep-end look in his green eyes as most of the other young men.

"I say, are you lost?" he asked.

"No more than anyone else," replied Steve.

"Really? I'm not sure if you're aware, but this is the venue for British troop training. You Yanks have your own camps dotted around the country."

"I know. In fact, that's why I'm here. I… uh… kinda didn't undergo my full basic training, back at boot camp in the States. My CO wants me to complete the full twelve weeks, so I've been sent here to train with you guys."

"Splendid!" The man grinned and held out his hand. "My name's Tiberius Worsthorne, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Steve shook his hand, being very careful not to squeeze too hard. As far as he knew, the brass hadn't divulged any of the details of Project Rebirth to the overseers of Pirbright. As far as they were concerned, they were just getting a member of the USO to be trained in basic combat.

"Steve Rogers," he replied. "Always glad to make a new friend."

"So, Steve, how did you end up over here?"

"That's a long story." A _very_ long story.

"In that case, save it for the barracks. No point telling it a hundred times." At that moment, Steve heard the sound of an approaching motor. It took another minute or so before the others noticed it. "This must be our welcoming party," Tiberius said. He grabbed his bags and made his way towards the steps down from the station to the road, and everybody followed him. Steve guessed that following the guy who seemed to know what he was doing was a sensible attitude for soldiers to adopt.

The motor was indeed a bus, a rickety old affair that looked like it was held together with bits of copper and tape. It pulled up at the station with a cough and a splutter, choking its way to silence. Its ancient door squealed open, and a man in a British Army uniform stepped out.

"Attention!" he called. Then, because he knew he was dealing with men still wet behind the ears, "That means form a line, side by side, and stand there until I tell you otherwise."

Steve, who'd already mastered standing to attention at Camp Lehigh, fell in beside Tiberius. This time, he didn't have the shame of being the shortest or skinniest man in the line. In fact, he was the biggest. He had to try very hard to keep from smiling at that.

"My name," the man said, "is Sergeant Harry Rushford, and as you've probably guessed, I'll be your drill sergeant for the next twelve weeks. Nobody moves on to stage two of their training unless they pass muster with me, so I expect each and every one of you to give a hundred and ten percent of your effort, a hundred and twenty percent of the time. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," Steve intoned with the rest. He didn't bother pointing out the mathematical impossibilities of the sergeant's request; he'd promised Bucky he wouldn't go smart-mouthing people, and he didn't think Rushford would appreciate the sentiment, either.

"Good." As Rushford made his way down the line to examine each recruit, Steve realised the guy was older than he'd first thought. His hair wasn't blond, but white, and his face was lined with age. Maybe all the sergeants not too old to fight were already doing so on the front lines. When he reached Steve, Rushford stopped, giving him a look frosty enough to form icicles. "Ah, Private Rogers. I'd been told to expect you in with the new recruits. I've been asked to give you a basic military education, and I intend to ensure you leave with nothing less. You'll get no special treatment here."

Steve kept his gaze forward. "Thank you, sir. I don't expect or want any special treatment. Just a chance to prove myself."

"And you'll get it. Now, all of you, onto the bus. Not you three," said Rushford, indicating Steve, Tiberius and the guy to Steve's left. "You three will put your belongings on the bus, then return here to push."

"Err… push, sir?" asked Tiberius.

"Push. Push. You know what push means, don't you? The bus needs bump-starting once she'd stopped, and we don't have a hill to roll her down. You'll push until she starts, then run to the door and jump aboard so we don't have to stop and risk stalling."

When Rushford disappeared into the vehicle, Tiberius leant towards Steve to speak quietly.

"I hope the rest of the equipment we'll be training with isn't as… rustic… as this bus."

"So do I," Steve agreed. But he had a sinking feeling that the country had been stripped of all serviceable equipment. "But let's get this bus sorted before we worry about that, or Sergeant Rushford might start giving us laps."

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: Thanks to everybody who's read, reviewed, followed and favourited so far. I'll be updating next Sunday, as usual, but I won't be doing any stand-alone Christmas-themed story or poem this year. If, however, you have watched Thor: Ragnarok, you could check out Chapter 4 of my story,_ Sibling Rivalry _, which will be published next Wednesday, and which will be Christmas themed. If you haven_ _'t watched Ragnarok, I don't recommend reading the chapter or the story as it contains spoilers._

 _On another note, you can check out a piece of fanart by DraejonSoul at the following link: h-t-t-p-s (colon) (double slash) draejonsoul-dot deviantart-dot com (slash) art (slash) We-Were-Soldiers-719384107. As a disciple of stick-man art, I_ _'m always envious of people who can draw people and make them look like actual people instead of formless blobs._


	76. New Friends

We Were Soldiers

 _76\. New Friends_

Judging by state of the bus, Steve had expected the worst of the training facility at Pirbright, but the camp was in surprisingly good condition. The roads and paths were paved or chipped, bushes were trimmed into orderly arrangements, and the grounds were spotless. Camp Lehigh had been dry and dusty, but he suspected this place would have the opposite problem.

The bus deposited the new recruits at one of the empty barracks, and Rushford instructed them to unpack and get settled in. The group seemed to have designated Tiberius as their unofficial leader; they waited until he and Steve entered the barracks before following.

The beds were uniform metal frames with lumpy old mattresses. Steve picked what looked like the cleanest of the mattresses and began unpacking his gear. First he took out his clothes and made sure they were still folded neatly, then he unloaded the few books he'd brought with him, a few Army pocket-book editions of stories he enjoyed or hadn't yet read.

As they unpacked and waited for further instruction, the talk turned to civvy life, and what they'd all done—or hoped to do—before being drafted. As Steve listened, he heard everything from chemists to labourers, from bankers to farmers. Then, one of them shouted out, "What about you, Sammie? How'd you end up with us?"

"Me?" Steve kept his focus on shelving his books, and tried to decide how honest to be right out of the gate. "Same as anyone else, really. I signed up to do my bit for the free world."

"We sure could've used a bunch of Sammies doing their bit for the free world back when the free world was a lot bigger. Before we lost half of Europe to the Krauts."

"Come on, now," Tiberius countered. "It's not fair to blame Steve for decisions made by his country's politicians. We've all got to work together."

"Spoken like someone who thinks we ought to be kissing up to the Yanks for finally deciding to get their hands dirty."

Steve stood up and looked for the speaker. The man was young, probably no older than twenty, and his face was etched into a frown. Whatever chip he was carrying on his shoulder, it didn't seem like a new one. Steve wasn't sure if he could change the guy's opinion of him, but he had to try.

"Look, I'm not here to make enemies: I think we have quite enough of them out there on the front lines. And maybe we could've been here before now, but that wasn't my call. I signed up as soon as I could, and all I want is to put a few bullies in their places. Hopefully make a difference in the world."

The man rolled his eyes and scoffed. "If it weren't for the Japs kicking you in the family jewels, you wouldn't even be here."

"I'm not going to waste time speculating about what might or might not have happened in the past, or even what might happen in the future. I've come to fight, and I plan to do that, one battle at a time. I'm sorry if you have a problem with that."

Before the guy could respond, another camp sergeant appeared with instructions for them to follow him to the mess hall for lunch. Tiberius joined Steve as the group filed out the door.

"Ignore that fellow," he said. "Some people just don't understand how the world works."

Steve nodded, but said nothing. Half of him agreed with what the guy had said. It was all well and good the U.S. being in the war now, but France had fallen and half of Europe was already occupied by the Nazis. If the U.S. had committed earlier, could that have been avoided? If the Japs hadn't attacked Pearl Harbor, would the President have joined the war?

He shook his head. He just didn't know. But one thing was for sure: he wouldn't help win this war with his head full of _what-ifs_. He put aside the guy's accusations and resolved to focus on becoming the best he could be. Somebody his parents could be proud of.

There were some… interesting… smells coming from the mess hall, and even those who didn't have super-sensitive olfactory senses commented on it. The scent tickled at something in Steve's memory, something familiar… perhaps from his childhood. What was it?

The inside of the mess was as clean as the rest of the camp, with orderly rows of benches and chairs, and was very much like the mess back at Camp Lehigh. Steve grabbed one of the metal trays from the stack near the serving counter, and the rest of the recruits formed an orderly line behind him. If there was one thing you could say about the English, it was that they were good at forming lines.

"What's on the menu for today?" Tiberius asked one of the guys behind the counter.

The cook grabbed a large, deep metal cooking tray and dumped it heavily down. The contents were the source of the familiar smell, and were topped with some sort of pastry crust. "Pie."

"What kind of pie?" Steve asked.

"Meat."

Tiberius shot a skeptical look in Steve's direction, and asked, "What kind of meat?"

"General meat," came the response, followed by a ladle-full of the pale crust being deposited on their trays with something sloppy and brown. Tiberius pulled an unimpressed face, but Steve had learnt to be less discerning. Growing up during the Great Depression, you didn't turn your nose up at food, no matter what it was or where it came from. His mom had been extremely gifted when it came to turning scraps and left-overs into edible meals.

"I don't suppose there's sticky toffee pudding for dessert?" Tiberius asked. The only answer was stony silence.

They found themselves a table and tucked into their meals. The meat was… general. It was a pretty accurate description. It wasn't lamb, it wasn't beef, it wasn't pork or chicken. It was just meat, and a damn sight better than what they were eating on the front lines.

A few other young men joined them at the table and began pushing their pastry around their trays. Any grumbles were kept quiet enough that the cooks couldn't hear.

"I wonder what kind of animal this mystery meat used to be," one guy said.

"I think it used to be _several_ kinds of animals," Tiberius said miserably.

The other guy paled and stared at Steve who was shovelling the stuff in his mouth. "How can you eat it like that?"

Steve offered a shrug. "It's not so bad. Believe it or not, I've had worse." And Bucky had already warned him about the food standards. Besides, it wasn't as if he could afford to skip meals. His metabolism burned faster the more physical exercise he did, and he already needed 5,000 calories per day just to maintain a resting weight. Luckily, Phillips had provided him with some high-calorie energy bars invented by Stark, which oughta keep him going for a couple of weeks. After that, Phillips would arrange to have more sent, and Steve could eat as many as he needed under the guise of them being for medicinal purposes.

Another of the recruits, a spectacled fella with an air of boredom about him, asked, "Any of you chaps read those old penny dreadful magazines? Specifically, the ones relating to Sweeney Todd?"

"Who's that?" Steve asked, swallowing a mouthful of pie. Swallowing without chewing made it go down a little easier.

The recruit leant forward, a nasty grin fixed on his face. "Sweeney Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street. He killed his victims by slitting their throats, and their bodies were disposed of by his lady, Mrs. Lovett. She baked them into her pies and sold them to customers."

With a forkful of food halfway to his mouth, Steve froze. He'd just remembered what the smell reminded him of. The hospital where his mom had worked, and had later been a patient, possessed an old incinerator that was used for disposing of… parts. He knew, because he'd overheard two of the orderlies talking about how they hated being on disposal duty. Aged fifteen, and too curious for his own good, he'd followed them down to the incinerator and watched them toss unidentifiable organs into it. The smell of burning meat had made him vomit on the spot.

He looked down at his food. _No_. That was stupid. The recruit was just yankin' their chains. Nobody in their right minds would cook people.

 _Maybe it_ _'s dog._

"I'm full," he said, pushing his tray back. He would resort to one of his energy bars, and hope dinner was something less _mystery_.

Tiberius held his nose and gulped down a forkful of the meat. By the time he'd finished swallowing, his pallor was decidedly greener. "Maybe we should—I say, watch out!"

Steve didn't have time to glance over his shoulder at whatever Tiberius was warning about. He felt something hard and tray-like jabbed into his shoulder, and then something hot and damp seeping through his shirt. He didn't need his enhanced sense of smell to tell him what was now dripping down his back.

"Oops, guess I wasn't looking where I was going," sneered a familiar voice.

Turning, Steve found the hostile guy from the barracks staring down his nose at the group at the table, a couple of lackeys behind him.

 _Seriously? The old_ _'Oops I spilled my dinner on you' gag? Even Danny Cavanagh got tired of that one by fifth grade._

"Baloney!" Tiberius scoffed. "You clearly saw where you were going, you inbred Scouse halfwi—"

"It's fine," Steve said, as his antonagonist's scowl deepened. "Accidents happen. I used to be pretty clumsy, too."

"But, Steve—"

"What in God's name is going on over here?" somebody yelled. Yet another drill sergeant came marching over, and Steve could tell he was one of those drill sergeants who kept an eye out for any tiny infraction as an excuse to issue punishment. There had been a drill sergeant like that back at Camp LeHigh, too, though luckily he hadn't been the SSR's drill sergeant.

"Nothing, sir," Steve's new Hodge smirked. "Just a little accident, on account of my clumsiness."

"Private Briscoe, do you recall seeing a large field just within the boundary walls as you were bussed into camp?"

"Err, yes, sir."

"You'll now go to that field and run around it twenty times. Then you'll go straight to your barracks and wait until you're called for drill."

The man's face fell. "But sir, what about lunch?"

"Unless you're willing to scrape it off Private Rogers' shirt, you'll forego lunch today. Maybe hunger will dull that clumsiness of yours. This is what Mr. Darwin calls _survival of the fittest_. If you haven't read his work, I suggest you use the next twelve weeks to do so. Now, hop to it! And don't think you can beg off with less than twenty; I'll be keeping count."

The man known as Briscoe slunk off, and the drill sergeant disappeared back to wherever those guys lived between shouting at recruits. The two young men who'd been following Briscoe picked a table at the opposite end of the mess and swallowed their meals in glowering silence.

"You know he wasn't really being clumsy, right?" Tiberius asked.

Steve snorted softly. "I wasn't born yesterday. I've seen plenty of bullies like him before. In fact, back at Camp Le… I mean, back in the States, I had guys like him lining up to use me as their punching bag."

Tiberius eyed Steve's broad shoulders. "It doesn't seem to have done you much ill."

"I heal pretty fast. Anyway, that was back in school. I'm an old man compared to most of you guys."

"Well, Old Man Steve," said the guy with the glasses, "I'm Anthony Tickle. Yes, the name's hilarious, please get the laughing and joking out of the way now, and try not to giggle like a school girl when the drill sergeants shout out 'Private Tickle'."

Everyone at the table laughed at that, Steve included. Poor guy—hopefully he wouldn't always be the butt of the army's jokes.

"What about you?" Tiberius asked the other young man at the table with them.

"Bartholomew Worthington-Price Esquire," the man said, offering a round of nods. Not a hair on his perfectly coiffed head was out of place, and he held himself with an awkward stiffness, as if unused to doing anything as informal as eating mystery pie in a communal dining area.

"I like how it just rolls off the tongue." Tiberius eyed him up. "I take it you'll be heading straight off for officer training, after Basic?"

"Of course. Father would have a fit if I began my service without a commission. The Worthington-Prices are leaders, not followers. No offence intended," he offered to the others.

"None taken. I'm bound for officer training myself," said Tiberius. "What about you, Tickle?"

"Not for me. My girl's old man was enlisted back in the Great War, and he doesn't trust officers as far as he can throw them. Told me if I come back with anything other than a field commission, I won't be marrying his daughter. Anyway, can you imagine how much I'd have the mick taken out of me if I was _Major Tickle_ , and eventually _General Tickle_? Being _Private Tickle_ is bad enough. Hopefully I'll make corporal once I've been deployed."

"What about you, Steve?" Tiberius asked. "What'll you do when you're through with Basic?"

"All I've ever wanted to do; fight. I don't care whether I'm giving the orders, or taking them. I just want to make a difference."

"What do your folks think about you being out here?" Tickle asked.

"Nothing much. My dad was killed in the Great War. He was a soldier, fighting in the trenches in France. Germans flooded his entire trench with mustard gas; nobody made it out. My mom passed away a few years ago. She was a nurse in a T.B. ward, until she caught it herself."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to open up old wounds."

Steve offered him a conciliatory smile. "You didn't." He brought out the locket his mom had given him, the one he still kept in his breast pocket. "This is all I have left of them, and it does me good to talk about them when I can. Their pictures are a bright spot in dark times."

The topic moved onto safer territory as everyone finished off their mystery pie. Tiberius moaned about the lack of sticky toffee pudding, and then they were sent back to their barracks to prepare for drill. As they passed by the exercise field, they saw a tiny figure at the far side of the track, flagging on its fifth or sixth lap.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"I like it here," said Gabe Jones.

Jim Morita glanced around the inside of the pub and offered a noncommittal shrug. "It's alright, but the ale isn't as good as the _Fiddle_ _'s_."

"No, I mean _here,_ " Jones elaborated, his arms open wide to indicate more than their current setting. Bucky looked around for something that made this place better than the last three pubs they'd visited. It had been Morita's idea, something he'd learnt from the British. _A pub crawl_. Walk the streets for as long as your legs could carry you, and have a drink in every pub, inn and tavern along the way.

Morita had invited all the occupants of their Krausberg cell along on the crawl, but Dugan wanted to stay at the _Fiddle_ so he could flirt with Lizzy, and Falsworth was nursing the mother of all hangovers. Dernier claimed British alcohol was too foul to be consumed in large quantities, so had opted to stay at the _Fiddle_ —one of the only pubs in London to still have a supply of _Sauvignon Blanc_ —and sip wine with Dugan. With Steve off in British Boot Camp, that left Jones and Bucky himself to accompany Morita on his quest to involve every London pub in his campaign of inebriation.

"The décor is pretty dated," Bucky said, nodding to the brass ornaments nailed to the wall. Lots of British pubs had brass ornaments nailed to their walls. Did they think people would steal them, if they weren't nailed down?

"Think about it," Jones elaborated. "Here we are, three Americans: a black, a Jap and a pasty white boy, and nobody's looking twice at us."

"Hey, I'm not pasty," Bucky shot back with a half-hearted glare.

"If we tried this in America, we'd all be lynched. Well, I would, at least."

"At least you blacks get to walk around free," Morita complained. "You wanna try living in one of the camps they stick Japanese Americans in."

"Are they really that bad?" Bucky asked. He'd heard that a lot of Japanese Americans had been 'secured' after Pearl Harbor, allegedly for their own safety as much as for national security, but he had no first-hand experience of it. In fact, he couldn't recall even meeting a Japanese American, before he'd rescued Captain James and his fellow Rangers from their bridge in Italy.

"Let's put it this way: they're not the sort of camps where you sit around a fire toasting marshmallows. Armed guards, limited facilities, seizure of possessions… it's only a gas chamber away from what the Nazis do to the Jews."

Bucky shifted uncomfortably on his seat. Knowing that Japanese Americans were interned in camps was one thing. Hearing about it from somebody who'd been there was something entirely different. He'd never questioned that his country and its leaders were right and just, but then, he'd grown up in a family that was pretty well off, and had a decent education in schools and colleges which catered almost exclusively to boys and men like him. It was easy to forget that not all Americans had the same privileges.

"Is that why you signed up?" asked Jones.

"No, I signed up to serve my country." Morita let out a disdainful snort, and took another large gulp of ale. "Being in the camps is only slightly better than being on the front lines, but those who have family members serving are given a little more respect than most. I got a little sister to watch out for, as well as my parents, and if me being here takes a little heat off them, it's a small price to pay."

"You got a sister?" Bucky asked. It seemed a lotta guys out here had family reasons for fighting. Dernier had joined the French Resistance to try and keep his brother and sister safe. Monty's entire family was embroiled in the war on both sides of the channel. Even Steve was looking to settle what his dad started twenty five years ago.

"Yeah, Lucy. And no, you can't date her."

"What? I don't wanna date her. I haven't even met her."

"If you met her, you'd wanna date her. And I'm telling you now, you can't."

"Fine. You can't date my sisters either," Bucky sniffed.

"Glad we understand each other."

"You got any sisters, Jones?"

"Only brothers. And neither of you can date them, either."

Bucky and Morita both laughed, whilst around them, local patrons failed to be scandalised by a white guy, a Jap and a black drinking together. As their glasses slowly emptied, Bucky decided it was a good time to get to know both men a little better.

"What'd you do before the war, Little Jim?" he asked Morita

"You mean, before I was forcibly relocated to California's swankiest internment camp? I worked for my Pa."

"Let me guess—sushi bar?"

"First, that's a stereotype," said Morita, holding up one finger. A second finger joined it. "Also, you're an asshole." He lifted a third finger. "Finally, I don't even like sushi. My dad was one of the most respected used car salesmen in Fresno. I worked mostly behind the scenes, fixing up cars and getting them ready for sale. Of course, that was before we were invited by the government to stay at a camp in the dump known as New Mexico. You ever been there?" Both Bucky and Jones shook their heads. "My advice: don't. Nothing to see but desert, and not even in a picturesque, John Wayne kinda way."

"Sounds horrible," Bucky agreed.

"It was. Now my dad will never sell cars again. Everything he had was seized and impounded by the IRS, and we were forced out so fast that he didn't have time to put his paperwork in order. Even if the camp closed tomorrow, he won't be able to prove that the stock was initially his. And that's the other reason I signed up; the pay is better than almost anything I could get back home right now, if I was even allowed to work. I put aside everything except what I need for essentials. When this is all over, I'm going to buy my dad a piece of land so he can retire in style, and next time nobody will be able to force him off the land, because he owns it. Of course, that's even if I can find someone in California who's willing to sell to a Jap."

"Ever thought about living somewhere out of California?"

Morita looked at him as if he was mad. "Why would I do that? It's home. Would you be happy living away from New York?"

"Probably not," Bucky admitted. He could do it, if he had to, but he'd prefer to go home after all this was done. Wasn't that what everybody wanted? To go home? "How about you, Jones? Were you a used car mechanic too?"

"Me? No, I'm still trying to figure out what I wanna be when I grow up." He gave them a white-toothed grin. "Still haven't decided. Truth is, guys like me don't got a lotta options. My folks farm, as does my older brother. My younger brother's still in high school. A college education doesn't open as many doors for blacks as it does for whites. For a while, I thought I might be a professional baseball player, but I had to abandon that plan."

"What changed your mind?"

"I'm terrible at baseball."

"Oh."

Bucky must've been looking sorry for Jones, because the guy reached out and patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, it'll all work out."

Morita downed the rest of his beer and belched loudly. "I don't know about you two, but all this share-our-feelings crap is making me thirsty. What say we hit the next pub? That is, if you two lightweights think you can handle it."

"Fighting words from a shortie," said Jones before quaffing what was left of his drink. "C'mon Barnes, you're not gonna let him get away with cheeking a sergeant, are you?"

"Definitely not," Bucky agreed. "And as punishment, I'm gonna drink you under the table. By the end of the evening you're not gonna know up from down."

They moved on to the next pub—the unfortunately named _Cock and Bull_ —but their previous conversation weighed heavy on Bucky's mind. He remembered singing at school _The Star-Spangled Banner_ when it became the national anthem in 1931, and how proud he'd felt when he belted out the last two lines of the first stanza.

 _O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave_

 _O_ _'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?_

But right now, U.S. citizens were being held as prisoners by their own government, and Bucky did not feel particularly brave. When he got home, would he still find the star-spangled banner yet waving in greeting, or would America be so changed by the war that he'd no longer recognise the place he called home?

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The snow was deep and the wind was biting, but for the first time since winter began, Danny didn't care. He and Adalina waded through drifts towards the village, and he felt like a little kid being allowed to take the street car by himself for the first time. Rosa had finally decided Danny knew enough Italian to be trusted around others, and Danny could've kissed her for it. He'd heard of Cabin Fever, but he'd never truly understood it before, not even confined to the bowels of the _Monticello_ en route to Europe. Now, though, he understood.

Rosa had mothered him in that special way she had before letting him leave the house with Adalina to act as his guide. _Remember, you are Pierre, from France. When you butcher my language with your attempts to speak it, try to do so with a French accent, not an American one. If somebody lets an English word slip, do not respond. Do not engage people in conversation, and let Adalina steer the introductions. You may have one_ _—ONE—glass of beer, because I know how loose men_ _'s tongues become once the drink starts flowing._ It was as if she didn't trust him to be sensible! Clearly, she did not know him at all.

"Tell me about this place we're going," Danny shouted above the wind.

Adalina slowed her pace, to walk beside him and talk without the need to shout. "It is a place we go to meet. There are drinks and food for those who want."

"So… it's a bar?" Adalina shook her head. "A pub?" Another head shake. "Ritzy restaurant?"

"Rit-sey?"

"Yeah, you know…" He waved his left arm vaguely. "Swanky. Classy. Posh."

Adalina laughed. "Your words are funny." She put on her best impression of an American accent, which was atrocious. " _Swan-key. Rit-sey._ _"_

"Glad I amuse."

The lights from the nearby village cast a warm glow in the valley engulfed by the twilight murk, and at the thought of something hot to eat and cold to drink, Danny picked up his pace. He regretted that decision seconds later, when he floundered in the deep slow and would have fallen on his face if Adalina hadn't reached out to grab him by his good shoulder and keep him upright.

"You so clumsy before you got shot?" she asked.

"No, I was as graceful as a cat."

"A clumsy cat?"

"Very funny," he said drily.

Adalina looped her arm through his before they continued down the hill. Danny told himself it was because he was being gentlemanly by escorting Adalina through the deep snow… and not the other way around. No doubt if his dad were here now, Danny would be getting all sorts of lectures about being weak and needing a woman's help. As he walked, he pulled Adalina a little closer. He was done being told what he could and couldn't do. What he could and couldn't _be_.

"You are shivering! Are you cold?" Adalina asked.

Danny shook his head. Thoughts of home still did that, sometimes. The child in him remembered too many long, dark hours spent in the cupboard. Too many strappings, too many nights lying hungry because deprivation was a punishment when the strappings and the cupboard failed. Here he was, half a world away from home, freer than he'd ever been, yet still a prisoner of his own memory, still haunted by the demons of the past. Would he ever grow out of his fear?

Adalina helping him wasn't the only thing his father would've disapproved of. _The kitchen is a place for a woman, and no son of mine is going to grow up doing a woman_ _'s chores,_ his father had said, when seven year old Danny had asked his mom if he could help her make apple pie for Independence Day. In truth, he'd hoped he could talk his mom into making him a birthday cake, after the apple pie. An afternoon spent in the cupboard had put paid to that idea.

Since being saved by the Bianchi family, Danny had spent more time with Rosa and Adalina, helping them cook and clean and milk the goats, than he had doing proper _manly_ jobs. No doubt Danny's father would expect to be waited on hand and foot, in his place, but Danny wasn't going to be that guy—ever. In fact, he was actually enjoying the work. Cooking was a science, one that challenged him mentally whilst his failing body slowly mended itself.

"Remember," Adalina said, chanelling her mother as the lights of Castello Lavazzo drew closer, "you must be very careful what you say."

"Don't worry, I'm an accomplished actor," he assured her. He was starting to hate pretending to be all the things he wasn't—fine, happy, well-adjusted—but at least he was good at it. A lifetime of practise had given him that much, at least.

The paths through the town had been swept, snow piled up in small mountain chains which bordered the roads and walkways. A few people were out, as well wrapped up as Danny and Adalina, and they called out greetings which Adalina returned. He realised Castello Lavazzo was going to be one of those places where everyone knew everybody else. As a stranger, he would stick out like a sore thumb. No wonder Rosa had kept him hidden until now.

Adalina led him past several buildings and up a flight of icy steps. The steps terminated in an alley so narrow he had to squeeze through sideways, made more difficult by how he held his injured arm. As he tried not to balk at the close darkness of the alley, he wondered if Rosa had told her to bring him via this route on purpose, to curb his enthusiasm for leaving the house.

The alley opened up into a courtyard, and he could tell by the trails left in the deep snow that several people had already come this way, and recently. Adalina made a beeline for the door the other trails led to, and Danny caught his reflection in a window that'd been cleared of snow and ice. He still looked gaunt, but no longer sick. His hair had grown so long it was almost in his eyes, and he'd given up trying to shave with his left hand after he'd almost bled to death for the third time. His beard was past that 'itchy' stage, and in true Irish fashion, was growing wild and unruly. He didn't look like the Danny Wells he'd known all his life, and he wasn't sure whether that was a good thing, or bad.

Light and warmth raced out of the open door to greet the newcomers. Adalina knocked her boots against the door jamb, loosening the snow that clung to them, and Danny copied her. When they stepped into the upper section of the large room, a few heads turned. Adalina unravelled the headscarf covering her hair and waved at a few of the men and women at their tables. The curious stares at Danny continued as they walked through the room and down several steps to what turned out to be a more informal seating area. Adalina led him towards a group of three men and a woman who were sharing drinks around a small table upon a motley assortment of wooden chairs.

"Good evening, everyone," Adalina said in Italian. "I'd like to introduce you to my second cousin, Pierre. He has come from France, to stay with us after his family were killed in the fighting."

They greeted him, and made appropriate sounds of sympathy. Then, Adalina gestured to them in turn.

"Pierre, this is my best friend, Lucianna, her brother Ludovico, and his friends, Benito and Antonio, who are brothers."

For the first time in his life, Danny felt old. Adalina's friends where all between Hawkins-aged and Carrot-aged; fresh-faced kids just starting out with their lives. Like Adalina, Lucianna was a pretty girl, with big brown eyes framed by dark lashes. With her pouty lips and glossy brown braid of hair, Danny suspected she'd be one of those women who'd break hearts with a single look. Luckily, she wouldn't be breaking his.

Ludovico was a wide-shouldered, wide-armed young man with a mane of brown hair even more unruly than Danny's. He had that same smell about him as Matteo, the smell of soot and sweat and having spent all day in a forge. This was Matteo's apprentice, no doubt.

Of the two brothers, Benito appeared the slightly older, and he had a rather serious look about him, as if he had little patience for nonsense. The twinkle in Antonio's brown eyes said he laughed easily and often. The resemblance between the two was strong, stronger than between Danny and his own brothers. These two both had the same light brown hair, dark brown eyes and chiselled jaw lines. Not only did they make Danny feel old, but they made him feel scruffy.

"Sit down, join us," said Ludovico. He stood up—he was a couple of inches taller than Danny—and pulled over two spare chairs from a nearby table. "Your father did not mention you had family staying with you, Adalina."

"Pierre only arrived a couple of days ago, and my father did not want to cause a fuss and start rumours," Adalina told him. "Besides, it has been a long journey from France, and Pierre has not been up to meeting others until now."

"It must have been very difficult, travelling so far in the snow, Pierre," said Benito.

Adalina gave a firm nod. "It was. Especially since he lost his identity papers along the way."

"Did he lose his tongue, as well?"

"His Italian is not very good," Adalina said, with an apologetic shrug.

"But not so bad that I can't speak at all," Danny interjected, aware that his Italian sounded broken and probably infantile.

"I was beginning to wonder if you had a voice," Ludovico grinned. "Tell me, what do you think of Italy so far?"

"Very beautiful," Danny offered. "Especially mountains."

"Our father has been to France several times," Benito offered. "He is especially fond of a café right by the Champs-Élysées, but I can't remember what he called it. Do you know the place?"

Danny shook his head. "I have never even been to Paris," he said, banking on the hope that nobody present knew what French regional dialects were supposed to sound like. Otherwise, he was done for. "My home village is called Aureille. We are renowned for two things: growing olives, and pretending the rest of the world does not exist."

"And of this we have only your word. Perhaps you are a German spy, or a member of the Gestapo come to determine our allegiance."

Adalina laughed aloud. "Do you really think I would bring a German spy here? Sit with him, and welcome him with open arms?"

Benito's expression softened, and Danny was left with a better idea of where Benito's hostility was coming from. He should'a seen it before. Pretty girl like Adalina would have dozens of admirers, back in New York. It stood to reason that, here, she'd have a few as well.

"No, of course not. Forgive me, Adalina, I spoke in haste."

"You are forgiven," she smiled. "Now, what gossip have I missed these past few days?"

If there was gossip, it went right over Danny's head in a rapid stream of largely unintelligible Italian. He caught an odd word here or there, but trying to keep track of three people speaking at once was a whole lot different than having conversation aimed directly, and steadily, at him. Content just to listen to what sounded like singing, he went largely unnoticed by the rest of the group—until, in a moment of forgetful habit, he reached for his drink with his right hand and winced as his muscles pulled painfully in his shoulder.

"You seem to be favouring your right arm," Ludovico spoke up. "Are you hurt?"

"A farming injury," Danny offered, fully realising just how lame it sounded. "It flares up from time to time."

"I did not realise farming olives was such a dangerous activity."

"It surprises everyone."

The comment earned a round of laughter, and another round of drinks. Unfortunately, Adalina had been listening to her mother a little too closely; she took Danny's second drink from him before he could even wet his tongue. She told the others that 'Pierre' had no head for alcohol, and gave the glass to Benito, who was only too happy to drink it.

Not long after that, Adalina declared it was time to leave. Lucianna begged her to stay a while longer, but Adalina reminded her friend of the long trek she and her 'cousin' had back to her father's house. She bade her friends good night, and Danny offered his own farewell.

When they stepped out into the courtyard, they found the snowfall had abated, leaving a clear, starry sky peeping from behind heavy grey clouds. Once more, Adalina took Danny's arm. "I think my friends like you," she said, as they waded towards the narrow alley.

"I think they believe I'm a member of the Gestapo regardless of what you told them."

"Pah! Nonsense. But mama said we should not speak English in the town."

"Scusi," he said, and she smiled.

The stars kept them company as they made their way back to Rosa's house. Were the stars shining wherever the 107th had made their camp tonight? Were the men huddled together in their sleeping bags? Had winter slowed their progress to a crawl? He hoped it had. He hoped they were snowed in as badly as he was. That way, as soon as the spring thaw set in, he could set off and find them again. Sure, he'd probably be sent home because of his injury, but a need was growing within him. A need to see Barnes just one more time. Not even talk to him, just to make sure he was okay.


	77. The Madding Crowd

We Were Soldiers

 _77\. The Madding Crowd_

Every day, Steve held himself back. When the recruits ran laps, he slowed his pace to stay in the middle of the pack. When they performed drill, he shortened his stride to keep time with the rest. At the shooting range, he purposely aimed some of his shots at the edges of his targets. And on the obstacle course, he crawled and jumped and climbed and ran no faster than the fastest of the other men.

The obstacle course was loathed by everyone, including Steve. Running it wasn't so much a training exercise, as a form of torture. The projected completion time for the course was eight minutes and thirty-five seconds, and even if he hadn't been holding himself back, Steve would've struggled with the time. Perhaps in summer, in fair conditions, the time was achievable, but right now, it took almost double that for the fastest recruit to finish.

Steve was no stranger to assault courses, having run—or wheezed—Camp Lehigh's course more times than he could count, but Pirbright's assault course was something else. It started with a hundred metre dash to a series of foxholes and embankments which could be used as shelter whilst advancing. The shelter was needed because the camp's drill sergeants fired blanks at the recruits, to "get you used to advancing whilst being shot at, and help turn you boys into men."

Reprieve from the gunfire came in the form of a long trench at the top of the hill, through which the recruits had to run in a crouch because it was only a meter and a half deep. Steve suspected the architects of the trench had been inspired by the Cretan Labyrinth, because it wound and twisted its way like a snake through the ground, and though there were no branches or dead-ends, it was difficult to shake the feeling that you'd somehow been turned around and were going entirely the wrong way.

Recruits came out of the trench knuckling their aching backs, but were immediately faced with a ten-foot high wall. In times long past, the wall had been climbable, but years' worth of recruits had worn the hand-holds and foot-holds smooth. The only way to scale the wall now was for one soldier to give another a boost up, and then be pulled up in turn. Though Steve knew he was capable of scaling the wall himself in a single jump, he didn't. One purpose of the assault course was to aid in team-building, and if Steve went on ahead, he would never be part of the team. They would look at him in the same way he had been looked at all his life; as somebody different. The reasons for being different had changed, but the fact that he wasn't like others hadn't.

At the wall, he took the job of giving others a leg up. Those who made it to the top of the wall suspended themselves there, leaning down to help haul their companions up. It took both Tiberius and Tickle to pull Steve up, and they complained the whole time that he was heavier than he looked. If only they'd seen him six months ago!

The torture continued in the form of a long drainage tunnel. _Rats in the pipes_ were what Steve and his friends called themselves as they crawled through the tunnel on hands and knees, sloshing though water and mud that had collected there over the winter.

The tunnel brought them to a bridge over a wide river, though _bridge_ was a very generous word for what was basically a tightrope with two other ropes at waist-height for holding. After the first few disastrous attempts to walk along the rope head-on ended with recruits sliding off into the rain-swollen river, the men quickly learnt to shimmy along it sideways.

After the bridge, they climbed a knotted rope to the top of a concrete lookout tower. Why the drill sergeants didn't just let the men take the stairs, Steve didn't know, and—remembering his promise to Bucky about not mouthing off—he didn't ask. At the top of the tower, they took a zip-wire down to what could only be described as a _bog_.

Although the whole of the course was waterlogged, the bog was the most rancid, foul-smelling, disgusting section the recruits had to pass though. It was also the site of the barbed-wire crawl. Rifles had to be wrapped in plastic to prevent them becoming flooded as the men crawled their way through vegetable matter rotting in standing, sulphur-smelling water.

They men came out of the crawl sodden, caked in mud, smelling like rotten eggs, and ready for a shower. Unfortunately, the crawl only marked the half-way point of the course. Straight after the crawl, they had a hundred metre dash to the cargo net, and every man who went up the net took his life in his own hands. It was an ancient thing, the ropes slippery with algae and moss, the 20-foot high frame rickety and rotten.

Into the wooden frame, initials and dates had been carved, and even short messages. _PB and TC 1926_ was barely legible beneath a newer scrawling of _Do the Nazis have to do this?_ At the very top, Steve spotted a heart-shaped carving in the rotting wood, but the initials within were too badly weathered to read. No doubt some lonely soldier had carved it as a tribute to his love back home—a tribute that time was slowly erasing.

The cargo net, though the driest section of the course, was also the most perilous. Because it was so shot with damp and rot, and because it rocked so dangerously while in use, only three men were allowed to climb it at any one time, which significantly slowed the whole team's progress. Progress was slowed further by Willy McDonald, a good-natured Glaswegian who was even heavier than Steve for all the wrong reasons. So heavy was Willy, that the drill sergeants made him climb the net solo, in case his weight caused the whole thing to collapse. Pity stirred in Steve's heart as he and the others were forced to watch the sweaty, red-faced young man try to haul his bulk up the rickety old net. Briscoe and his friends jeered at Willy's slow progress. Steve suspected the whole 'team-building' aspect of the course had gone right over Briscoe's head.

More tunnels and trenches and draining pipes awaited the men after their brush with the cargo net, followed by hurdles of logs and faded old tyres. The final section of the course was a simple down-hill sprint to the finish line. Most of the recruits ended up sliding down, because the grass had been worn away and the mud made staying upright too difficult for the exhausted troops to manage.

"I can't feel my legs," Bartholomew complained after their sixth day of running the course. "And my heels have blisters. In fact, even my blisters have blisters."

"I swallowed a mouthful of bog," Tickle added. "I think I should go to the hospital wing and have my stomach pumped."

"You must be pretty fit, Steve," Tiberius spoke up. "You never seem winded after the course. _And_ you manage to give Willy a boost up the wall without breaking your spine."

"I guess I am," Steve agreed. He and his new friends, plastered head to toe in mud, trudged their way across the drill field to the shower block. Behind them, the rest of the recruits limped in a strewn-out line. "In fact, I don't mind the course all that much… or I wouldn't, if it wasn't for all the mud."

"My boots are flooded," Tickle continued. "We're going to have to spend the whole night washing clothes and scrubbing boots."

"Speak for yourself," said Bartholomew. "I have a pass for the town, and I intend to spend my evening in the company of several fine ladies."

"Good luck finding fine ladies in a village so close to a barracks," scoffed Tiberius.

"How on Earth did you get a pass?" Tickle asked. He pushed his glasses further up his nose; the mud on his face made them slide down again. "I've been after a pass since our first day!"

"My father is friends with Field Marshal Montgomery-Massingberd. Retired now, of course, but he still owes my father a few favours."

Steve made a mental note to check Falsworth's book to see how high the rank of _Field Marshal_ was.

"So, you didn't even have to bribe for it?" Tickle continued.

"Of course not!" Bartholomew sounded scandalised by the mere suggestion.

"Don't suppose your old chum Messing-pants could come up with another pass in the next couple of hours?"

"Sorry, no. But even if he could, Pirbright cricket club is _very_ exclusive; I doubt they'd let you in." He pulled up his sleeve and wiped the mud from his watch-face. "I'd better hurry on to the shower, otherwise I might miss the band's first song." He jogged on, apparently cured of his blisters.

"You'll never get your uniform cleaned up in time for morning drill!" Tiberius called after him.

Bartholomew waved over his shoulder as he ran. "I've got it covered. I'm paying Willy to launder my clothes and polish my boots."

And with that, he disappeared around the side of the barracks on the path that led to the shower block.

"Does anyone else get the impression he lives in a different world to the rest of us?" Steve asked. He couldn't imagine paying somebody to do his laundry. He hadn't even been comfortable with the hotel's washer women doing it, back in Palermo. Mom had been making him do his own laundry since he was eight years old. _Steven Grant Rogers, you have two arms and two hands and eight fingers and two thumbs, and all of them in working order. When you lose fingers or a hand or an arm,_ then _you can beg off doing laundry._

That had been Mom all over. She cared for him, but she never babied him, and she expected him to pull his weight—meagre as it had been—around the house. Just because he was small didn't mean he wasn't capable.

"His family's old money," Tiberius explained. "Old money people aren't like you and me. They're not even like new money people."

"What's the difference between old money and new money?"

"Well, to be new money, you actually need to _have_ money. Otherwise you're just poor. Whereas old money people can be both rich _and_ poor."

Steve scratched his head, belatedly remembering how muddy his fingers were. Ah well, he'd be showering it all off, soon. "I don't get it. How can you be rich _and_ poor?"

"Well, old money people don't necessarily need to have a lot of money. But they have land and titles, and a lot of them have big debts. And yet somehow, they can still live like kings. "

"If having debt is a precursor to being old money," said Tickle, attempting to wipe some off some of the mud smeared on the lenses of his glasses, "then my family are probably old money, too."

"What do your folks do, Tickle?" Steve asked him.

"Dad works in the coal mines. An old mining injury kept him from serving. Mum works in munitions, now. A lot of women do. My sister's going to be joining her next month, when she turns eighteen."

"My father's a doctor," said Tiberius. "He's trying to work on a cure for mustard gas poisoning."

Steve nodded. _Mustard gas_. The very thing that had killed his own father. So far, the Nazis had avoided using chemical weapons on the battlefield. Maybe they didn't have any, or maybe they feared to let the genie out of the bottle.

"I hope he succeeds," Steve said.

"Me too. He says he dreams of a day when soldiers won't have to carry a gas mask into battle."

"If you ask me, the only way to see that dream become a reality is to destroy all the gas in the world," said Tickle. "Can you imagine trying to do that? _Excuse me, Mr. Churchill, but I don_ _'t suppose there's any chance of you destroying your supply of poisonous chemicals?_ Hah!"

"I wonder what the world would be like, if there was no war." There was a look both far-away and introspective in Tiberius' eyes; he didn't even notice when he squelched through a particularly muddy patch. "Do you think that'll ever happen? That one day, there'll be no war?"

"It's a nice dream," said Tickle. "But people have been waging war since the first human picked up a stick and realised he could hurt the guy next to him with it."

"I'd take a stick over mustard gas, any day. What do you think, Steve? Think we'll ever reach a place where there'll be no more wars?"

"I sure hope so." But he didn't believe it would happen. Like Tickles said, men had been waging war since the dawn of time, and they'd probably be waging it until the end of time, too. The players changed, the battlefields changed, and the weapons changed. But war? War was the same play on a different stage, and no matter how badly it ended, the audience always called out for an encore.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Steve was terrible at poker. Bucky had told him so a thousand times, and now the guys in the barracks were telling him, too.

"You scratch your head every time you try to bluff," Tickle pointed out.

"No, it's the way your eyes go shifty, like you're looking for a way out. Gives you away every time," said Tiberius.

"Plus, you frown," Willy added. He'd finally finished washing his own uniform, and Bartholomew's, and had joined the guys for a round of cards. "Your forehead goes all wrinkly. You're a terrible bluffer."

"This is why I never lie," Steve agreed. "People always know when I'm not telling the truth."

"Maybe you should play a different game," Willy suggested. "What about dice? It's hard to lie, rolling dice."

"I think I'll just turn in with a book. I don't wanna ruin your game."

"You're not ruining our game," Tiberius assured him. He drew heavily on his cigarette and sent a puff of smoke blowing across the pot. "I can't remember the last time I won so many hands."

"Alright, I'm _definitely_ retiring with a book."

The guys laughed as Steve folded and returned to his creaky, lumpy bed. From his duffel bag, he pulled out the first book his fingers touched. It was an ASE copy of _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ , by Mark Twain. A smile teased its way across his lips. When he'd been younger, Mom had often likened him and Bucky to Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, especially since they had a habit of getting themselves into boyhood troubles—sometimes dragging Bucky's sister, Mary-Ann, into trouble with them.

"Don't suppose you've got any more cigs you'd fancy sharing?" Tickle asked Tiberius, as they resumed their game.

"Sorry. This is my last one."

"I ran out yesterday," Tickle said, a gloomy expression on his spectacled face.

Steve glanced over to his duffel bag, where the two packs of smokes Bucky had given him were still sequestered away. It hadn't taken him long to figure out _why_ Bucky had given him the cigarettes, but in truth, there wasn't much he needed to barter for. Even as a kid, he'd lived lean. When he'd packed to come to Europe, he'd put his whole life into a standard issue GI duffel bag and a backpack. Everything he needed, he had with him, and the only things he wanted were not items to be traded for smokes.

He stared at the words on the page, not really seeing them. His thoughts strayed to the past, to other friends, some of whom he hadn't seen in years. He'd heard that Tyler and Johnny Delaney had been shipped out to the Pacific, while Mitch Gray was flying B-52s somewhere in Europe. Davey Tarbuck, like Steve, was barred due to health reasons; his high blood pressure and diabetes were a big red mark on his medical profile.

The poker game disbanded after Tiberius won his third game in a row, and the players returned to their beds, to talk and relax before lights out. They weren't the sort of conversations Steve would've heard back home. No speculation about where the Nazis would strike next, no banter about how those Krauts were gonna get close enough to strike a blow; they knew where the Nazis would strike next, and the Krauts had already struck dozens of blows against England. For these men, the war wasn't across the other side of the world; it was around the corner.

"I've heard medical supplies on the front are running low," said Tickle. "That sometimes they have to rip up the tents into strips to use them for bandages."

"Things aren't that bad," Steve said, before the hyperbole could spiral out of control.

"You've been to the front, Steve?"

"I thought you were just a show performer?" Tiberius added.

"I was. But I was performing pretty close to the front."

"Did you see any action?" asked Tickle.

A loud snort from across the barracks was Briscoe tuning in to the conversation. He sat up in his bed and scoffed again. "Of course he didn't see any action. Probably sat cowering in his bed every time he heard a shot fired. If he was even close enough to the front to _hear_ shots being fired."

"I saw enough," Steve shot back. "While I was there, I saw a small group of injured soldiers get ferried to the hospital, and nobody was cutting tents into strips for bandages. And a couple of days after that, a bunch of POW soldiers were rescued, and I was right in the thick of it when they came back to camp. I may not have been fighting on the front line"—more like on the other side of it—"but I saw enough to have a good idea of what it's like out there."

"And what _is_ it like?" Tickle prompted.

Silence reigned as Steve considered his next words. Nobody was playing cards, now. Nobody was reading a book, or writing a letter home. They were all entirely focused on Steve. Sure, they'd been living for years in the shadow of war, but now they were about to step out of the shadows and into the cold light of day. They knew the propaganda campaigns couldn't be entirely honest, but here was somebody who could tell them the truth. Not the truth that the bright posters told them, or that their drill sergeants told him; the real, honest-to-God truth.

"It's hard," he admitted. "Everything moves slowly. Sometimes you can be sitting around for days just waiting for orders. But when they come, nothing's slow. It all happens lightning-fast, sometimes so fast that you don't even know what's going on around you. The food's pretty bad, and supplies are tight, but that's why you gotta rely on your brothers-in-arms. You gotta look out for each other, and help each other. Because out there, the only thing you really have, is each other."

His words seemed to sit heavy on the recruits; they asked no more questions. Steve went back to not-reading his book, and just before he knew lights-out would be called, he grabbed his backpack and took one of the packets of smokes out. Tickle had the next bed over, and when Steve sat down on the edge, it creaked beneath his weight.

"Here," he said, offering the packet. "I think you need these more than I do."

Tickle hesitated. "I don't really have anything to barter."

"I'm not looking for barter. I just don't like seeing a friend in need."

That drew a smile from the young man, and he accepted the packet. "Thanks, Steve, I really appreciate this." He stared down at the packet, his gaze thoughtful. "I don't know how I'm going to get on at the front, with stuff like smokes rationed out."

"Funny thing about being out there. You do what you gotta do to survive. Something tells me you're gonna be fine."

"Thanks. Say, you ever considered going for officer training after this? I bet you'd make a great Captain."

Steve laughed. "Believe it or not, I'm happy being a plain ol' Private. I just want a chance to do some good, and I'm not sure I'm cut out for giving orders."

"Lights out!" one of the drill sergeants called. Steve hurried back to his bed, and the room was plunged into darkness. He felt his way beneath his blankets, and lay staring up at the bare ceiling. _Captain Rogers_. It sounded a little too much like _Captain America_ for his liking. No, he'd had enough of being a Captain for one lifetime. From now on he was going to be just like everybody else here. He was going to be a soldier.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _The table was cold, the metal biting his skin through the fabric of his shirt. Shadows danced around the ceiling above him, mocking him with their freedom. In the background, German opera wailed, and a cruel face smiled down at him._

" _You're doing very well, Sergeant Barnes. So well, in fact, that I'm going to let you go. All you have to do is tell me who I should put in your place. Tell me which of your cellmates should replace you, and you are a free man."_

 _Faces swam before him; Dernier and Jones, Falsworth, Dugan and Morita_ _… he could put one of them in his place. He could escape the constant pain, the daily torture, the deprivation…_

" _Well?" Zola prompted. "Have you chosen? Or have you changed your mind? Shall we continue with our experiments?"_

" _No!" He couldn't bear it. Not another day of being stabbed with needles, of having his blood boil in his veins, or the nausea-inducing headaches that invariably followed. "Please, no. I've made up my mind. Take Morita. Use him. Not me."_

" _Very well."_

 _Zola sent one guard to fetch Morita, and the other to help Bucky get dressed in his uniform. He heard Morita_ _'s screams as the man was dragged down the corridor, and he hurried with his dressing. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to see Morita put on the table. He didn't want to be seen by the man he'd condemned to torture._

 _But Zola made him wait. Morita was dragged in, cursing Zola, cursing Bucky. He was wrestled onto the table and restrained, just has Bucky had been restrained. Bucky kept his gaze down, on the floor, avoiding the other man_ _'s eyes._

" _A wise choice," Zola chuckled. "He's got spirit. Oh, you can go now. But if I catch you again, I'm going to put you back on the table."_

 _Bucky ran out the door. He ran down the corridor, past the factory floor, and out the front gates. He expected at any moment to feel the bullets of the guards in the towers hit him in the back. He not only expected it, he_ wanted _it. He_ deserved _it. But they didn_ _'t shoot. They let him go, they gave him his freedom, and he ran on into the night, tears streaming down his cheeks…_

 **Bang bang bang.**

Bucky's eyes flew open, and at the same time, his stomach heaved. He made it to the small en-suite bathroom just as the contents of last night's meal rose up his throat.

 **Bang bang bang.**

He ignored the banging on the bedroom door until he'd finished being sick. Until he'd rinsed his mouth out with water from the sink, and scrubbed the tears from his cheeks. Then, on shaky legs, his stomach still convulsing, he made his way to the door.

At the last moment, he realised he was completely naked, and grabbed the fluffy hotel dressing gown from his wardrobe, wrapping it around himself before pulling open the door of the room. Falsworth was standing there, and at the sight of Bucky, his eyes widened.

"My God, man, you look terrible."

"Drank too much last night," Bucky croaked. It wasn't a lie. He'd downed half a bottle of Scotch—not one as nice as the bottle he and the rest of the 107th had found in a supply drop in Italy, but nice enough—and played drinking games with Dugan and Morita. For a little man, Morita could sure hold his liquor.

"So did Dugan, but he doesn't look like he was dragged backwards through hell." Falsworth squinted at him. "I don't think I've ever seen somebody's eyes look so bloodshot before. Do you want to see a doctor?"

Bucky shook his head.

"Alright. I'm sorry if I woke you, but I just wanted to ask whether you'd like to come and get something to eat."

His stomach complained at the idea, but he knew food was what he needed. Preferably something hot, and dripping with grease. Maybe more of those fish and chips. "Sure, I could go for breakfast."

"Breakfast?" Falsworth tried to stifle the smile sliding across his face. "It's lunch time. I would've woken you earlier, but Dugan seemed to think you'd need the rest."

"Oh." How the hell had it got to lunch time? It felt like he'd only been asleep for five minutes. "Yeah, lunch sounds good. Maybe I can make up for breakfast, too."

"That's the spirit!" Falsworth clapped him on his arm, and damn near knocked him over. "Sorry. Should've realised you'd still be a bit wobbly. Why don't you take a bit of time to recover yourself, then meet us down in the foyer in say, thirty minutes?"

"Sounds good."

When Falsworth left, Bucky sank down onto the bed and ran his hands through his sweat-damped hair. Every night, his dreams were the same. He was back on that table in Krausberg. Zola offered him release if he would put somebody else in his place. And every night, the dreams—the nightmares—ended the same way. Whether it was Morita or Jones, Dugan, Falsworth or Dernier, Bucky offered up one of his cellmates to take the torture in his place. The freedom that should've tasted so sweet was tainted by the knowledge he'd condemned another man—a friend—in his place.

Telling himself that they were only dreams didn't help in the slightest. The dreams were so real they felt more like premonitions, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that if he was ever captured again and tortured like that, he wouldn't hesitate to put another man in his place. Once, he'd thought he was strong enough to stand any hardship; now, he knew the truth. He was weak. A cracked mirror. Zola had broken him in more ways than one.

As he fastened his shirt, his hands shook, fingers jerking over the buttons. The shakes had started a few days ago, and they came on without warning. It wasn't too bad when he was alone in his room, because he could get into bed, curl into a ball, and wait for his body to warm up. But out there, it was different. Sometimes he couldn't hold a drink without it slopping all over his hand. Other times his legs might go weak, causing him to stagger.

He got around it by drinking a lot. Nobody looked twice at a drunk who spilled his drink or staggered as he walked. The drink also helped with the nightmares, a little. When he drank a lot, he fell into a deep slumber that the nightmares weren't always able to penetrate. Only problem was, it was taking more and more alcohol to reach the pleasant haze, and more to reach the protective embrace of deep sleep. He'd switched from beer to whisky a few days ago, and his body was already becoming alarmingly good at processing cheap Scotch. His hands continued to shake after he dressed, and that too was worrying. At first, the shaking had lasted just a few seconds; now it lasted a few minutes, and the intervals between shakes were growing shorter.

Bucky stepped into the small en suite bathroom and splashed some water from the sink onto his face. After drying off, he dared to look into the mirror. He avoided it as much as possible, because he didn't like the man who looked back at him. The man with dark shadows beneath his eyes and skin that looked pale and clammy. The man who inflicted pain on his friends to save himself.

 _Shellshock_ , he told his reflection. _That_ _'s all this is. You're in shock from all you've been through. All the friends you've lost. You just need time. And better Scotch._

He ignored the doubt wriggling in his stomach like a nest of vipers, just as he ignored the small voice in the back of his mind that told him Bucky Barnes was gone, and the person looking back at him was Subject 36.

The shakes finally subsided enough to allow him to lace up his boots, grab his jacket and head down to the hotel lobby. Maybe today he could find a better Scotch; one that would not only put him into a sleep so deep the nightmares couldn't find him, but one that would silence that small voice once and for all.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: Happy New Year, everyone! Yes, I completely forgot to publish a chapter last Sunday. I had a busy weekend and lost track of time—I think it was Tuesday before I realised I hadn't updated. My Christmas break was spent playing a lot of Rimworld and watching a lot of Once Upon A Time, so I didn't get as much writing done as I'd initially planned. I did, however, manage to get a chapter finished, and I'm now working on Chapter 90. I have some exciting ideas for chapters 90-93ish, and I expect to get those written relatively fast-ish. A lot of my previously free time is taken up by dog, especially Sundays, when we go to an off-leash dog park ~40 mins away from home to meet up with groups of other beagles for a couple of hours of play. So, that's basically where I'm at with the story!_


	78. The Hero

We Were Soldiers

 _78\. The Hero_

"Come on, ladies, keep it going!" yelled the drill sergeant.

Steve grunted as he ascended the cargo net. It was no physical challenge, but the other recruits were grunting with effort, and Steve was still trying to fit in. So, he grunted. He complained about aching legs after a gruelling session of running laps. He dragged himself out of bed in the mornings despite the fact he'd already been awake for hours. He was the model of a perfect recruit, and nobody but he knew how hard it was to be so… normal.

He made a point of breathing hard as he landed on the other side of the net, and as the rest of the recruits began climbing over, he turned to watch them. Each stage of the course had a designated 'spotter', a soldier tasked with staying behind until the last man had cleared the obstacle, and the cargo net was Steve's responsibility today. He offered shouts of encouragement for the tired men, claps on the shoulder as they reached the ground and passed him, and directed them on to the next obstacle as they struggled on.

It took a few minutes for the majority of the recruits to clear the net and pass on to the next section where the drill sergeant waited, but finally it was down to the last three. Tiberius and Briscoe stood waiting while Willy McDonald, in all his sweaty glory, slowly hauled his bulk against the hand of gravity. Steve suspected the guy would probably end up in a communications office somewhere, which was… probably for the best. Willy wasn't just big, he was also the gentlest guy Steve had ever met. He wouldn't even kill one of the many spiders which nested in the dark corners of the barracks and occasionally roamed into the recruits' beds in search of a meal; how he was going to kill Nazis was anyone's guess.

"Just my luck to get stuck behind Fatty McDonald," Briscoe grumbled loudly. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called up, "Get a move on, Fatty. Some of us wanna actually finish this course before Christmas."

"Give him a break," Steve said. He could tell by the focus on Willy's face that the guy was trying as hard as he could to go as fast as he could.

"Sure, because the Nazis will give him a break when they're shooting his fat ass," scoffed Briscoe. "Ah, bugger this, I'm not waiting any longer."

Briscoe stepped forward, grabbed hold of the net, and began to climb before Steve could tell him not to. It wasn't as if Briscoe would've listened anyway; the guy seemed to think he knew everything about everything. If there was one thing Steve disliked more than bullies, it was know-it-all bullies. He'd met a few in his time, and most of them had real spiteful streaks.

By the time McDonald was at the zenith of the net, Briscoe was halfway up. Tiberius was still on the ground, looking up at the two climbers, and even from a distance, Steve could see the worry etched on his face. It was a worry that was well-founded. Just as Briscoe was catching up to Willy, something cracked so loud that Steve nearly jumped out of his skin. For one second, he thought a thunder storm was approaching. Then, the cargo net began to fall back on itself.

Steve's heart leapt into his mouth as the screams of all three men filled the air. He wanted to move, to run forward, to _do something_ , but his feet were rooted to the spot. All he could do was watch as the heavy wooden frame came crashing down, and Briscoe, Willy and Tiberius were lost in the mass of wood and net.

It was over in three seconds, but it took another three for Steve to recover his wits. For him to regain control of his feet. For him to look over his shoulder at the distant line of men at the next obstacle and shout, "HELP! WE NEED HELP!" He didn't wait to see whether his call had been heard, but set off running to the broken frame.

"Tiberius, Willy, Briscoe, are you okay?" he called. There was no response from the mass of broken wood and damaged rope, so he began to sift through the wreckage. It didn't take long for him to find an arm sticking out from beneath the rope net, and he pulled the rest of the rope away to reveal Willy, his eyes closed and head bleeding at the temple. Steve shook him gently by the shoulders. "Willy, can you hear me? Willy, say something."

It was like a scene out of a movie. Willy's eyes flickered open, unfocused and dazed. "Wha'?" he slurred. "Wha' happened?"

"The cargo net. It collapsed."

Willy's blue eyes filled with water. "It's mah fault—"

"No. Briscoe got on the net. The frame was fine until he started climbing."

"But if I wasn't so big—"

"Hey, listen to me." Steve placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to ground the injured man in the present, and what had to be done next. "This isn't on you. You were at the top of the net, and there was nothing you could'a done. Now, I need you to get out of this mess and go fetch more men. We need to find Tiberius and Briscoe. Okay?"

Willy winced, and nodded. He squirmed for a moment, then let out a whimper of pain. "Mah foot's stuck. I think it's trapped under the frame."

"Is it broken?"

The Scot glanced at the mess around him. "I'd say so."

"I mean, your foot. Can you wiggle your toes?"

"Aye. I don't think it's broken. It's just stuck."

"I'm going to lift the frame, and you need to pull yourself clear. On a count of three." Steve took hold of the sturdiest-looking piece of wood, and braced himself. "One, two, three, now!" He lifted. His leg muscles and arm muscles complained, but he kept lifting until Willy's foot was free.

"Hey, I see somebody," said Willy.

Steve glanced over his straining bicep and spotted a uniformed body lying prone beneath the rope net. He couldn't tell who it was, but judging by his proximity to Willy, he guessed it was Briscoe. The guy had been closest to Willy when the frame collapsed.

"You need to drag him out," he told Willy. "I'm going to lift this frame higher so you can get closer to him, then you need to pull him clear. Okay?"

Willy nodded. Pushed himself to his feet. Whimpered, and collapsed into a quivering heap. "Actually, I may have been wrong about mah foot being broken. I can't put any weight on it, and I got a lotta weight."

"Then crawl."

Sweat began to bead on Steve's forehead. Ignoring it, he shifted his grip on the broken section of frame and lifted it up to the level of his chest, allowing Willy to worm his way under the rope and to the unmoving body. The Scotsman may not have been the fastest climber, but he was a fair crawler. He grabbed the arm of the unconscious man and hauled him out from under the netting. It was indeed Briscoe, his hair slicked with blood, his nose bent at a sickening angle, and judging by the angle of the arm Willy was pulling, it was probably dislocated at the shoulder. Bully or not, Steve prayed that he was alive.

As soon as Willy had pulled Briscoe free, Steve dropped the frame and began hunting for Tiberius. He found the young man close to the foot of the frame, and all he could see beneath the mass of rope was that the man's eyes were closed. For a split second, he was back in that secret SSR facility, looking down at the closed eyes of Dr. Erskine.

 _I_ _'m not going to sit by and do nothing while another friend dies._

"Willy, I'm gonna need your help over here!" he shouted

Willy hobbled over, and Steve bent down to grasp the rotting wooden frame. It was heavier, here. A groan of effort escaped his lips as he put everything he had into lifting. Pieces of wood fell away, splinters raining down on him, but he merely closed his eyes against them and told Willy, "Hurry."

There was very little blood on Tiberius, but his face was pale, almost ashen, and even with his enhanced hearing, Steve couldn't hear any breath escaping his friend's lips. What he _did_ hear were calls of other men, drawn by his initial cry for help. The first men to reach the scene took over from Willy, one hauling Tiberius out of harm's way, the other offering a shoulder for Willy to lean on as he limped back from the frame.

"Is everyone clear?" Steve asked. He could feel the sweat pouring down his back, and his arms and legs groaned in complaint. When someone confirmed that everybody was clear, Steve dropped the frame and jumped back before it could crush him, too. The ground shook with the weight of the impact.

Before Steve could get a single word out, things started to happen. The drill sergeant rushed forward to check on Tiberius, and instructed one of the recruits to tend to Briscoe. One man was sent for medical help, and another to report the accident to the camp's colonel. Only when Steve turned around, to face the other recruits, did he realise why everything was so quiet. Every last man was staring at him as if seeing him for the first time. As if he'd just sprouted horns and a tail… or perhaps a pair of feathery wings.

He was going to have a lot of explaining to do.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Colonel Wilkinson was a straight-talking, no-nonsense officer, and Colonel Phillips would've loved him. He hauled Steve into his office twelve hours after the incident, as soon as he'd gotten reports from all involved. Steve had heard that Briscoe and Tiberius were alive, but that was all anyone knew. Hopefully, he could wrangle some answers outta Wilkinson.

"It says here," said Wilkinson, tipping the report he held open in his hands, "that it took four men to move the remains of that frame."

Steve waited, but there was no question. He guessed he was supposed to comment. He'd been expecting the Spanish Inquisition for the past twelve hours, but he hadn't planned on what to say. He'd never been a good liar.

"I can imagine, sir. It was pretty heavy."

"And yet you managed to lift it by yourself. How is that?"

"Adrenaline, sir," said Steve. "It all happened so fast. I knew those men might die. Might already be dead. And that thought… well, it gave me the strength I needed to do what I did."

One of Wilkinson's grey eyebrows rose upward. "Private Rogers, I've heard of men in life-threatening situations doing incredible things. Exhausted soldiers finding the strength to haul a downed comrade off the battlefield. Men finding some inner strength to protect a loved one. Hell, last year, I heard of a woman down in Truro who tore half her Blitzed house apart to get to her crying baby. But I never heard of a man lifting two tons of sodden wood and rope by himself. Twice."

"Sir?"

"Says here that Private McDonald saw you lift the frame so he could crawl free with Private Briscoe, then lift it again so he could get to Private Worsthorne. And all without breaking a sweat."

"Trust me, sir, I was sweating."

"A metaphorical sweat, Private. Not a physical one. So." The colonel dropped the open file down onto his desk. "Care to explain to me how a U.S. Private manages to pull off such a miracle? This isn't the only… oddness… surrounding you, Private. Your drill sergeants tell me you're breezing through training like a ten-year veteran. You've smashed every record since getting here, for everything from stripping and reassembling a rifle, to hitting a target, to running the assault course."

"Oh, you know… good clean living," he offered. Clearly, he hadn't held back enough. He'd never intended to break records. To be different. "Fresh country air."

"Your file says you're from New York."

Damn that file. "I… err… may have prayed for divine intervention."

"Have you seen the refugees fleeing the war, Private? Have you walked beside death in a liberated Nazi concentration camp? Because I have. And it seems to me that God has not been in the business of answering prayers of late. Not for you, not for me, and not for the millions of people tortured and executed by the Nazis."

"I don't know what else to tell you, sir," said Steve. He put every once of conviction he possessed into his next words. "I'm just a soldier." And Phillips would kill him if he let slip the existence of Dr. Erskine's formula. Sure, the British were allies, but there were still protocols to be followed, and as far as Steve knew, nobody outside of the SSR or the SOE was authorised to know about Dr. Erskine's serum.

Wilkinson sighed. "Very well. You're dismissed, for now."

Steve stood and saluted. "Sir, could I see Private Worsthorne? I want to make sure he's okay."

The colonel shook his head. "He's still in surgery. Return to your barracks, Private."

There was nothing else for Steve to do. He hated lying to the colonel, but what else could he say? He'd been here for just twelve days, and he'd already screwed up. Not that he would've done anything different, if given a second chance. Except maybe punch Briscoe's lights out before he could get onto the cargo net.

He left the office and strode across the grounds towards the barracks. It was raining again, heavy and cold, and he hunched his shoulders, trying to press his collar closer to his neck to stop the rain trickling down it.

"Steve!" somebody hissed. "Over here!"

A hooded figure waited in the dry lee of one of the unused NAAFI buildings, and as Steve approached, he recognised Tickle.

"The heck are you doing out in this weather, Tickle?" Steve asked. "Training's suspended until tomorrow. Shouldn't you be relaxing in the barracks?"

"Sure I should. But, well, there's this girl I know, a friend from back home, and she's serving here as a trainee nurse."

Steve fought back the grin trying to creep across his lips. "Say no more."

"It's not like that. She wants to meet you."

"Oh. I, uh… well… I didn't exactly come here to… uh… meet dames."

"It's not like _that_ , either," Tickle assured him. "C'mon, she's in here, where it's dry."

Tickle opened the door behind him and led the way inside, where it was at least dry, if not warm. There was indeed a nurse waiting, and she shivered beneath her coat. Her hair was damp beneath her skewed cap, but she offered a friendly smile for Steve.

"Private Steve Rogers, meet Betsy Jones," said Tickle.

Betsy gave a short curtsy before Steve could even think of offering his hand. "Private Rogers, thank you for seeing me," she said. "From what I hear, you're a hero."

"I'm no hero. Just a man doing his job. But why are you out in weather like this?"

"I've been taking care of Private Worsthorne," she said. "He was conscious, for a while. He wanted me to thank you for saving his life. Made me promise, in fact."

"He couldn't have waited and told me himself, when he's allowed visitors?"

Betsy hesitated, and Steve's stomach lurched. "I think he was worried. About the surgery. That he might not come out of it."

"Is it that bad?"

"It's hard to say. There was some internal bleeding, but the doctors stabilised that. It's the damage to his spine that worries them most. They hope if they can repair the damage quickly, they might save… well, never mind about that. I told him he could thank you himself, but he wanted me to pass on the message. Just in case."

Steve nodded. Tiberius must've been in a lot of pain, if he thought he might not survive the surgery. "How are the others?"

"Private Briscoe has a dislocated shoulder, a broken nose, and a shattered cheekbone. He'll need a week in recovery, but I don't think they'll let him stay and complete his training. Private McDonald has a nasty concussion, but he should be out in a day or two. The doctors just want to keep an eye on him. All in all, it's a miracle nobody died."

"Yeah." A miracle courtesy of Dr. Erskine. Even though he was dead, the man was still saving lives. If there was a real hero here, it was him, not Steve. "Well, thanks, Betsy, for letting me know what's going on. And for passing along the message."

"I should be getting back. If you… um… want to talk about anything, I'm in barracks number two." She shot him a quick smile, the sort Bucky got all the time from dames, then aimed a more friendly one at Tickle before pulling her hood up and heading out into the rain.

"Some fellas just have all the luck," Tickle sighed.

"Trust me, pal, luck with women is something that's pretty new to me. But as nice as Betsy seems, I'm not interested."

Tickle's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Oh? Betsy's not good enough for you?"

"What?! No! I mean, back in London, there's this dame, and—"

"Relax, Steve," the other man chuckled. He clapped a hand on Steve's shoulder in a very Bucky fashion. "I was just pulling your leg." The light of humour in his eyes faded, and Steve knew what question he was going to ask before he'd even asked it. "So, what happened out there?"

Nobody had talked about it. Not to him. Oh, they'd whispered about it. Told stories of what they thought they saw. Made up different reasons for one man's unearthly show of strength. But nobody, outside of the colonel, had asked him about it. It was as if he'd become anathema to the other recruits, and he hated the way they looked at him when they thought he wasn't paying attention; with speculation in their eyes. He saw their looks. He'd always seen the looks people had given him. Always.

"Adrenaline," he offered lamely.

"Really? Because I heard there's something in those special ration bars of yours that make you super-strong."

"Tickle, trust me, there's nothing in the bars but a whole lotta protein and fat." Plus, they kinda tasted like sawdust. Stark claimed he was working on a new chocolate flavouring, but Steve wasn't sure 'chocolate flavouring' would be any better than 'chipped wood.'

"Well, alright. If you say so." Tickle nodded towards the door. "Guess we better get back to the barracks."

"Yeah. You go ahead, I'll be along shortly. Just wanna take a walk and clear my head."

Tickle gave him one of those 'you're crazy to be walking in this weather' looks, but didn't object. Alone, Steve leant back against the wall and took a deep, slow breath. He got the feeling that he hadn't heard the last about his feat of strength, but at least he could take comfort in the knowledge that whatever happened now, he'd done his best. He'd done the right thing. And hopefully he hadn't jeopardised his chance at being a soldier because of it.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Ignore them," said Bartholomew. He gestured to two of Briscoe's pals, who were giving Steve the stink-eye across the mess hall. "They're not worth acknowledging."

"I just wish they'd give me a break," Steve said with a sigh. He stirred his bowl of broth and dumplings with his spoon and tried to ignore the two men at the table at the other side of the room.

"Some people are just… what's that word you Americans use? Jerks."

"Barty's right," said Tickle. "If they've got a problem with you, then it's their problem, not yours."

"It's not just them," Steve admitted. The past couple of days hadn't been easy. About the only people who'd talk to Steve were Bartholomew, Tickle, Willy and the drill sergeants. Most of the recruits weren't overtly hostile, like Briscoe's friends, but he could see the suspicion in their eyes. It didn't help that from their point of view, Steve was an outsider. He was an American. He wasn't one of them, and he didn't belong. Even with Falsworth's phrase book, some of the things they said went over Steve's head. And just because he could strip and rebuild one of their weapons in record time didn't mean he belonged.

"Well, I'm grateful you were there," said Willy. Since being released from the hospital, he followed Steve around and offered to do anything Steve wanted. Shine his boots, write his letters, run his errands… as happy as Steve was that he wasn't being ostracised by _everybody_ , he found Willy's gratitude a little stifling.

"Rogers." The appearance of a drill sergeant put a stop to the glaring from Briscoe's friends. The sergeant stopped by Steve's table, and waited until all the recruits had risen and saluted. "Colonel wants to see you in half an hour."

"What about drill?"

"You can catch up with drill once you've seen the colonel."

"Yes sir." Steve saluted, and the sergeant left. A cold knot began to form in the pit of his stomach; the same cold knot he'd gotten that day at the World Trade Fair, when he'd been caught lying on his enlistment form. Whatever the colonel wanted with him, it couldn't be good.

"That sounded ominous," said Bartholomew, giving voice to Steve's private concerns. "I hope you're not in trouble. Have you done anything else heroic over the past couple of days?"

"What? Of course not. For a start, you guys have barely let me out of your sight."

"Maybe it's good news," said Tickle. "Maybe the colonel's going to make you the section commander for next week's battle simulations."

"I doubt the colonel would call me in for something like that."

"Maybe you're going to get a commendation for saving us," said Willy. The expression on his podgy face suggested he fully believed Steve deserved a commendation.

"Yeah, maybe." He just didn't have the heart to dismiss Willy's suggestion as wishful thinking. "Well, I better go see what the colonel really wants. Wish me luck."

"You'll be fine," Bartholomew assured him. Steve only wished he could believe it.

He was a little early for his appointment with the colonel, so he sat and waited under the watchful gaze of a dragon of a secretary. The woman watched him like a hawk, as if worried he might start stealing from the open stationery cupboard if she took her eyes off him. When he tried for a smile, the glare only became more frosty. That cold knot in Steve's stomach grew a little bit colder.

When he was finally admitted into the colonel's office, he saluted and stood to attention. Colonel Wilkinson eyed him up before inviting him to stand at ease.

"Private Rogers, I'm going to give you one more chance to tell me what happened three days ago when you saved three other recruits from being crushed to death."

The knot hardened. "Sir, I'm sorry, but there's nothing else I can tell you."

"Very well." The colonel sighed, and reached into drawer to pull out a sheet of paper. He slid it across the desk and nodded for Steve to pick it up.

They were discharge papers. In a neat, monospace type, they laid out that Private Steven Grant Rogers had completed his twelve weeks of basic training and was to report back to his commanding officer in London for new orders. As he read it, Steve's eyebrows rose.

"Sir? I don't understand."

"What's not to understand? In the eyes of the commanding officers of this facility, you have completed your training."

"But… I've only been here for two weeks." His hopes for a normal military career were dashed and broken upon the rocks like a ship in a storm.

"Even if it wasn't readily obvious to your drill sergeants that you have little need for basic training, your own CO seems quite eager to have you back in London."

Uh-oh. "You… err… spoke to Colonel Phillips, sir?"

"Right after your heroics." Double uh-oh. Phillips was going to chew him up and spit him out. He could see it now. "He's sent orders for you to return to your headquarters and report to him as soon as you reach London. You'll leave tomorrow on the afternoon train at fifteen hundred hours. It seems there's little point you continuing with the rest of the recruits today, and your sergeants have been advised not to expect you for any further training."

"Sir, can I see Private Worsthorne before I go?"

The colonel pursed his lips as he ran his gaze over Steve. "Could I really stop you, if you wanted to?"

Steve stood a little straighter and looked Wilkinson right in the eye. "Yes, sir. If you order me not to, then I won't. But Private Worsthorne is my friend, and I'd like to say goodbye to him."

"Very well. I'm told he'll be well enough for visitors tomorrow. Report to the hospital at midday, and I'll ask the medical staff to let you see him."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate it."

"Believe it or not, I am grateful to you for saving the lives of three recruits. You did a good thing, rescuing those men. I just hope that when you get to the front lines, you don't show the same mercy to the Krauts."

Steve nodded, though he wasn't so sure that showing mercy, even to the enemy, was a bad thing. It was Bucky's lack of mercy, when he shot the commandant of Krausberg, that worried Steve the most. To see his friend become someone so cold that he could kill without warning or offering the chance of surrender… it was sobering. And it was something he had to try to undo. To help Bucky remember the man he was before HYDRA got their claws into him. He owed that much to his friend.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Steve had always held a special dislike for hospitals. They were where people went when they were sick, and where people went to die. He'd been in hospitals more times than he could count, first as a patient, then as a visitor. Every time his asthma became problematic, he had hospital visits to look forward to. It wasn't always so bad, because Mom had worked at the hospital, and sometimes she came to see him during her breaks. Sometimes, he saw her more when he was a patient at the hospital than he did at home, and it was only now that he could appreciate the irony.

Later, when Mom had gotten sick, he saw things from the other side, and if he'd thought being a patient was bad, he quickly learned that being a visitor was worse. Seeing somebody you loved languishing in pain, slowly dying… Steve would've taken a lifetime of asthma attacks over that. Would've taken a thousand bouts with pneumonia over watching his mother succumb to the disease she'd helped so many others fight.

 _I guess the Krauts are like tuberculosis,_ he thought, as a nurse led him down to Tiberius' room. _Only, they_ _'re a disease big enough to punch._

Outside the door, the nurse stopped and turned to face him. "If he says strange things, don't be alarmed. He's on heavy pain medication. It's making him a bit woozy."

When Steve nodded in understanding, the nurse opened the door. Tiberius was lying in bed, and he looked like hell. He looked almost as bad as Bucky had looked, when Steve had pulled him off the table in Krausberg. His eyes were open but heavily lidded, and dark circles ringed them. His hair was lank and dull, and the room smelt faintly of urine. On the bedside table, a radio sat silent, and somebody—probably a nurse—had put out a vase of flowers. They, like the man on the bed, were wilting.

"Steve," Tiberius croaked. "They told me you'd be coming by. It's good to see you. Is something wrong?"

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat. Being here, like this, had brought it all back. That last visit to the hospital. The last time he'd walked its corridors. The last time he'd stepped onto the T.B. ward where his mom lay dying with the other patients too far gone to save. The flimsy face mask the doctors had made him wear for his own protection. How it had broke his heart to think that his mom had died seeing her son's face hidden behind a mask.

"No. Nothing's wrong." He blinked away the lie with the unshed tears in his eyes. "Just glad you're awake. I'd worried you might be sleeping."

Tiberius sighed. "Sleeping. It's all I do, now." He gestured towards a rickety old chair in the corner of the room. "Pull up a seat."

So Steve did. And when he was as comfortable as the paper-thin seat cushion would allow, he asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, you know. Could be worse." The expression on the young man's face said it couldn't really be that much worse. He reached out and plucked at a loose thread on the blanket covering his body. "My dad's arranged for the best spinal surgeon in the country to see me. One of the perks of having a dad as a doctor, I guess. I'm being shipped out in a couple of days. Guess I'm going to spend the rest of the war in a recovery room. My great contribution."

"Maybe it doesn't have to be like that. Even if you can't… I mean… even if that spinal surgeon isn't able to get you running marathons, there are still jobs you could do. Somebody has to man the communications, right?"

"A desk job." Tiberius scoffed loudly. "Would _you_ be satisfied sitting on the bench, watching other players running out onto the field?"

"No, I guess not. But it's better than missing the game completely."

Tiberius looked away, focusing on the woolen thread as he plucked at it. Moisture glistened in his eyes, and one hand curled into a fist. "I'm glad the others are okay. One of the nurses told me that Willy's back to training, and that Briscoe is being dishonourably discharged for endangering lives through negligence."

"It's what he deserves."

"No. It isn't. The accident… it's my fault."

"What?" Steve leant forward to rest a hand on his friend's shoulder. "C'mon pal, it wasn't your fault. I was there, and I saw everything. Briscoe got on the net while Willy was only halfway over. His weight on that frame caused it to collapse. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Tiberius shook his head, then brushed the tears from his cheeks with the back of one hand. He bit into his lower lip, as if welcoming the distraction of pain, and when he finally looked up at Steve, it was with wretched sorrow in his eyes.

"Can I tell you something secret? Will you promise not to tell anyone?"

"Of course," Steve promised.

With a long, deep breath, Tiberius began. "Ever since I got conscripted, I've been terrified. Terrified of going out there, of being shot at. Hurt. Killed. Of watching friends die, and of dying myself. I couldn't figure any way out of serving, though. They shoot deserters without mercy. So, the day before the accident, I went to the chapel, and I prayed like I've never prayed before. I begged God for a way out. I begged him to find some way to keep me from being sent to the front lines. Something to keep me out of the war, and all wars, for good." He wiped away another stray tear, and a humourless chuckle escaped his lips. "I'd always heard that God moves in mysterious ways; I just didn't know they were cruel ways. I guess this is why they say _'be careful what you wish for'_ , right?"

"Tiberius, this isn't your fault. God didn't do this to you; it was an accident. A coincidence."

"Or me getting what I deserve for being a coward."

"You're not—"

"Yes, I am." The man's glare of defiance was almost a welcome relief from the wretched sadness. Almost. "I know what I am, and I'm not going to lie about it. I don't want people to try and make me feel better, and I don't want pity. I brought this on myself. I made my bed, and now I'm going to lie in it, because that's about all I can do."

Steve sat silent for a moment, allowing his friend's anger to fizzle out. If Tiberius was going to beat himself up over this, then there was nothing Steve could do or say to make him feel better.

"Yknow, out there, everybody gets a bum deal," he said. "I figure you've gotta be either crazy or desperate to actually want to go out there and fight. So, maybe you're not a coward. Maybe you're just sane."

"If you've gotta be crazy or desperate to want to fight, which are you?"

Steve offered a small smile. "Both. Will you do me a favour?"

Tiberius snorted quietly. "So long as that favour doesn't involve me leaving this bed."

"It might not feel like it, but you've got a second chance. You could've died three days ago, but you didn't. Maybe, if this really was some act of God, he wasn't responding to your prayer; maybe he knew there was something else you needed to so. Some other place you needed to be. Now that you've got your second chance, don't waste it. Whatever the future holds, just be the best _you_ that you can be. Whatever you end up doing, do it with all your heart and soul, because second chances don't come around that often."

"And if my future involves me paralysed from the waist down for the rest of my life?"

"Don't use that as an excuse for failure; use it as a reason to succeed. If you really think this is the price you have to pay to get out of the war, then don't dwell on it, and don't let it bring you down."

"You make it all sound so easy."

"What can I say: I'm an optimist."

"I wish I could bottle up some of that optimism and take it with me." Tiberius nodded at Steve's dress uniform. "You're leaving?"

"Yeah, I've been recalled to London. Guess that's my basic training over." And he wasn't convinced the rest wasn't needed. There was still so much he hadn't done. Field exercises, mission simulations, not to mention the whole six weeks of tactical planning and strategy.

"They'll send you off to the front?"

"I have no idea," Steve admitted. Knowing Phillips, he was as likely to stick Steve in a lab as he was to allow him to fight on the front. "But whatever it is, I'll do my best."

"Take care of yourself out there, Steve. It's a big world, and not even a man as strong as you can fight the whole thing by himself."

The very Bucky-ness of that statement made Steve want to grin. Instead, he shook the hand that Tiberius offered, and mentally prayed that those spinal surgeons could work miracles.

His train wasn't until three o'clock, but he didn't want to stick around. He'd already said his goodbyes to the other recruits, and had brought his bags with him to the hospital. Sergeant Rushford had offered to try and start up the old bus to take him to the station, but Steve had told him not to bother. It wasn't too far to the town, and he could use the walk to clear his head… and to worry about what new fate awaited him back in London.


	79. Captain Rogers

We Were Soldiers

 _79\. Captain Rogers_

When Steve arrived back in London, he decided that the fastest way to get to the SSR's secret headquarters was to take the Tube. He consulted a map. It ought to be easy. Just a couple of stops to get to Whitehall. Confident that if he could handle New York's Subway, he could handle London's Tube, he boarded the Underground at the nearest station, cramming himself and all his gear into the crowded compartment.

He got lost. Somehow, between the crowds and the noise and the chaos, he got on the wrong train. Or missed the right station. He got so badly lost that he finally had to ask someone how to get back to where he started from. A woman, out shopping with her young daughter, proved very helpful. She directed Steve back to his starting point, and the girl smiled at him through a huge gap in her front teeth, reminding him very much of Bucky's younger siblings at that age.

Back at the train station, he decided that his battle with the Tube didn't deserve a repeat, so he went on foot to Whitehall. No doubt he made quite the sight, hauling all his gear down the civilian-filled streets, but it beat getting lost on the Tube again. And with his enhanced strength and stamina, he didn't even break a sweat.

When he spotted a familiar figure waiting outside the building that housed the elevator down to the SSR headquarters, his heart skipped a beat. Even without enhanced vision, he would've recognised Peggy in a crowd of a thousand brunette women. There was just something about her, something that pulled his gaze towards her, and today was no exception. Even in her SSR uniform, she was stunning.

"Welcome back, Private Rogers," she said. "Colonel Phillips was expecting you forty-five minutes ago."

"There were… umm… delays on the Tube."

One dark eyebrow arched up. "You got lost."

There was no fooling that woman. He held up his hands, admitting defeat. "How'd you know?"

"Everyone gets lost on the Tube. No visitor to London should ever take the Tube without a local to act as a guide."

Dozens of different responses echoed around Steve's head. _"Is that an offer?" "Would you like to show me around the Tube sometime?" "Maybe after this briefing we could go somewhere a little nicer than the SSR's underground bunker."_ Then, the voice of Bucky interrupted. _"Pal, when you ask a dame out for a first date, you gotta have something nicer planned than the Tube."_

"Err… duly noted," Steve said. And thank God his inner-Bucky had stopped him making an ass out of himself. He'd already had enough of that to last him a lifetime. To distract from any awkwardness, he entered the building and held the door open for Peggy, which wasn't an easy feat given how full of bags his arms were. In the end, he settled for holding the door open with his foot. Then _she_ held the elevator gate open for _him_ , which he guessed was fair. "What's the Colonel's mood like?"

"You mean, is he mad at you for jeopardising the SSR's greatest secret?" she asked.

Steve cringed on the inside. "You heard about that?"

"I hear about everything," she said, stifling a smug smile. She pulled the lever and the elevator began to descend. Only then did Steve realise how close he'd been forced to stand to the woman thanks to his mountain of baggage.

He cleared his throat. Tried not to inhale the perfume that always made his head spin in the nicest of ways. "For what it's worth, I don't think I'm that much of a secret anymore. I mean, HYDRA know about me. About Dr. Erskine's formula. Heck, I've _met_ Schmidt and his chief flying monkey. The headlines when we got back from the front were 'Captain America to Receive Medal for Valour'. The cat's kinda out of the bag already."

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?"

 _A little of both, I guess_ , he didn't say.

They rode the elevator in silence, and when they reached the one and only stop, they stepped out into animated bustle. Something was going down; there was an electric charge in the air, passing from person to person, infecting them with some indefinable excitement. Agent Carter gestured for one of the loitering soldiers to take Steve's bags, then led him towards a large map laid over a table.

"Colonel Phillips would like you to pinpoint those HYDRA facilities you saw on their map in Krausberg. I know you've already given a report on their location, but big things are afoot, and we need something more solid to go off."

"Alright. You got a pencil?"

One by one, he marked them off. Northern Italy. The border between France and Germany. Greece, so much further south than any of the other bases. Then three close together, around Poland and the Ukraine. He mumbled to himself as he worked, recalling the image of the HYDRA map perfectly in his mind. Even before the serum, he'd had a good memory. Doctor Erskine's formula had only improved what was already there.

"I just got a quick look," he told Agent Carter, as another soldier took the map away.

"Well, nobody's perfect," she quipped. But she was smiling as she said it.

"And these are only the weapons factories that we know about." There was no point toiling under the belief that this was all HYDRA had, and that they'd conveniently pinpoint everything on a map. "Sergeant Barnes said HYDRA shipped all the parts to another facility that isn't on this map." He let out a deep sigh as his eyes danced over another map on another table. "And who knows how many more there may be?"

"Agent Carter," said Colonel Phillips, appearing like a puff of smoke from some dark alcove where he'd probably been watching everything happening in the room, "co-ordinate with MI6. I want every Allied eyeball looking for that main HYDRA base."

"And what about us?" she asked.

"We are going to set a fire under Johann Schmidt's ass." His gaze snapped up to Steve's face. "Come with me, Rogers. We're overdue a conversation."

Steve followed the colonel into his private office, and that cold knot of worry returned. When he glanced back and saw the sympathy in Agent Carter's eyes, the knot grew.

"Sit down, Rogers," said Phillips, once they were alone. Steve kinda wished he'd left the door open. But he sat nonetheless. "You had one job. One. Pass basic training. It was a simple job. Monkeys could do it. I'm pretty sure some of them _have_. What part did you struggle with?"

"Sir, I couldn't just leave those men to be crushed to death. The Nazis are killing enough of our allies as it is."

"And now tales of your exploits are reaching ears in high places, and the tales are getting bigger with each retelling." Steve groaned inwardly. He was willing to bet real money that Kevin and Senator Brandt were contributing to those tales. It would certainly improve their footing for asking for a bigger budget. "Now, General Marshall himself has taken an interest in you."

"In _me_?"

"Actually, in Captain America. He doesn't care about you, but he does care about what Captain America represents. An unstoppable symbol of peace. And so, with that in mind, he wants to give you a truckload of weapons and send you off to kill Nazis."

"And you don't see the irony in that, sir?"

Phillips grunted gruffly. "Of course I see the irony. But Marshall is willing to give the SSR access to resources, so if he wants you trussed up like a Thanksgiving Turkey, that's what he's going to get." He nodded towards the closed door. "There's a map full of HYDRA facilities out there, and it's your map. What do you say? Want to wipe them off?"

The knot of worry dissolved, and it was all Steve could do to keep the stupid, childish grin from taking over his face. He was already picturing what he could do with the right team and the right weapons. It wouldn't be like the escape from Krausberg. It wouldn't be death and chaos. It would be quick, surgical, and Schmidt would never see them coming. He was willing to bet the men he'd rescued from Dugan's cell in Krausberg would want a piece of the action, and he knew he could it work with those men; especially with a first-class sniper by his side.

"Sir, there's nothing I'd like more. But I'll need a team."

"We're already putting together the best men."

Images of Hodge and the guy who'd flashed his butt cheeks during the Italian USO show assaulted Steve's mind. He suspected Phillips and Marshall, and even Brandt, had very different definitions of 'the best men.' And if Steve was going to do this, it was going to have to be his way. He couldn't go into combat if he couldn't trust the guy watching his back. That wasn't what a team was.

"With all due respect, sir, so am I," he said.

He had to hand it to Phillips; the guy didn't miss a beat. "Who were you thinking of?"

"Six of the men I brought out of Krausberg. Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Dugan, Privates Jones and Morita, Major Falsworth and Mr. Dernier."

Another grunt. "I know Barnes and Dugan, and I've written a condolence letter to Jones' parents, but the rest are a big fat question-mark. Still, I'll consider it. Come back here tomorrow, same time, and in the meantime I'll review their files. If they pass muster, you can have them. Otherwise, you go with our guys."

"Yessir." Steve stood and saluted. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me yet. You might not like my answer. Now, you're dismissed, Captain."

Steve turned for the door, and stopped dead. "I'm sorry, sir, did you say _captain_?"

"Privates can't lead men, Rogers. When General Marshall said he wanted Captain America, he wasn't joking."

"But—"

Phillips stood and glowered, his voice a cold growl. "You don't want a promotion? You're just an ordinary soldier? No, you're not, and I think you've proved that more than once over the past few weeks. So, this is the deal. You suck it up and start acting like a soldier. You accept the promotion and lead a team against the greatest enemy the free world ever has and possibly ever will face. Or you go to that lab in Alamogordo and we try to squeeze as much out of your genetic code as we can in the hopes of getting someone better the next time around."

"I've always wanted to be a real Captain," Steve offered faintly. And maybe Phillips was right. He'd tried being normal. He'd tried being an average guy and a regular soldier. It had been his dream, ever since he was a sickly kid. To be just like everyone else. But pretending to be average and normal… it wasn't working. And more, it was belittling Dr. Erskine's work, and everything the man had done for him. Dr. Erskine had believed Steve had the ability to go _beyond_ average. That he was _better_ than 'normal.' Perhaps it was time to embrace that.

"Glad to hear it. I suggest you head back to your hotel and ask the concierge to get you a new room; we weren't expecting you back for twelve weeks, so we didn't bother keeping up the rent on it. I'll see you tomorrow, and we'll talk more about your team."

When Steve left Phillips' office, his mind was in a fog, as if this was all some sort of surreal dream. In the space of an hour he'd gone from an annoyance to an asset. Now he wouldn't be sitting on the sidelines, waiting for his name to be called; he'd be leading his own team. _His own team_.

"Is everything alright?" asked Agent Carter, damn near making him jump out of his skin. It was probably the first time she'd been able to approach without him realising. This whole 'Captain' business had really got his head in a spin.

"Oh, uh, yeah. I just, well…"

"You just found out you're going to be leading a team of soldiers to take down HYDRA and your head's in about a thousand different places right now?" she asked with that all-knowing gaze. "Like I said, I hear everything. Congratulations, Steve. You've earned it."

Steve smiled. Maybe General Marshall didn't care about the man behind Captain America, but Agent Carter sure did. And hearing her say he deserved this trumped any accolade General Marshall could give by quite a large margin. Perhaps it was time to throw caution to the wind. Today had been a good day. And now he wasn't just a lowly, awkward private talking to a beautiful dame; he was a captain. Still awkward, granted, but at least it was awkward with a commission.

"Thanks. I was, ah, thinking of grabbing a drink. To celebrate. Would you like to join me? To celebrate." _Smooth, Rogers. Real smooth._

"You're not dashing off to get sloshed with your motley crew of soldiers and saboteurs?" she asked, affecting a casual air.

"Oh, I can catch up with Bucky and the others later. I mean, tomorrow. Plus, I just spent two weeks living in a communal bedroom with fifty other guys. Right now, I'd love the company of somebody more… uh… I mean less… uh…" _Shutupshutupshutup_ his inner Bucky commanded.

"I see." She gave him the once-over then smiled. "I'll just go and get my coat."

Only after she'd disappeared into another office did Steve remember he still had all his bags and sleeping roll with him. And that he didn't technically have anywhere to sleep tonight. So much for tactics and forward planning. Still, he'd happily rough it on the street for a night if it meant spending an evening with Agent Carter. _Especially_ if he managed to go the whole evening without putting his ginormous foot in his ginormous mouth. Again.

"So, where would you like to go?" she asked, reappearing with her jacket and her purse.

"Somewhere quieter than the _Fiddle_." God, _anywhere_ but the _Fiddle_. If he walked in there with Agent Carter, he would never hear the end of it.

"I know somewhere quiet, and it's not far. But," she gave him a mischievous smile, and his spine very nearly melted, "you'll have to take the Tube to get there."

He offered his hand and she graciously accepted. "Then it's a good job I have a local to show me how it's done."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky Barnes had a new best friend, and its name was Scotch. Scotch was great because it never changed, not even when other friends did. Steve had been a great best friend, but then he'd become somebody's science experiment, and now he sounded like Steve, and he had Steve's memories, but he didn't look like Steve, and he didn't always act like Steve. Steve-but-not-Steve was something Bucky was still struggling to come to terms with. Sure, he was thrilled that his friend was fit and healthy, but he missed the old Steve, and he wasn't even sure why. Old Steve had considered himself a burden. Old Steve was shy and twitchy around girls. New Steve… Bucky just didn't know. It was as if the universe had stood on it's head, and he was still trying to figure out what was up and what was down.

Wells had been a great best friend, too. So like Bucky in so many ways—apart from that whole liking men thing—but then he'd gone and gotten himself killed after _promising_ to return Bucky's socks. And just as Bucky had figured out that he could probably survive the war if he and Wells stuck together, Wells had been taken away, and then Bucky had been taken away from the rest of the 107th, too. He'd willingly left his family back home to come and fight in this war, but then been wrenched away from the family he'd made here, and he hated that he'd had no choice in the matter.

For a few days, he'd thought Falsworth might be becoming his newest best friend, because the guy followed him absolutely _everywhere_. But it turned out Falsworth was just there to introduce him to fine _Islay_ Scotch, which was just fine, too. Scotch was better than being followed around by Falsworth. It was better than arm-wrestling with Dugan, because the guy _totally cheated_ somehow. It was better than Dernier offering him suspicious blue cheeses to taste. When everybody else left him, or changed beyond recognition, Scotch was forever.

Something heavy slapped him on the shoulder, and he damn near dropped his glass of delicious amber nectar. He turned, to glower at the guy sliding into the seat beside him, then blinked to try and clear his obviously failing vision.

"You're not Steve," he said. "Steve's becoming a man's man at Pirbright. Drinking tea with the Limeys."

"It's me, pal." Genuine concern danced in Steve's blue eyes. "How much have you had to drink?"

Bucky shrugged. "What time is it?"

"Just after eleven."

"Then I've drunk six hours, and they got better with each hour." A loud cheer in the background, followed by the sound of something crashing to the floor, told Bucky that Dugan had found someone else to arm-wrestle with. Some fool crazy enough to rassle with the mustachioed menace. Bucky's arm was still twinging where it'd almost been wrenched out of its socket.

"That's another win for Dugan the Destroyer!" called Morita. "Who's up next? Five bucks gives you a chance to win double back."

"I see the guys are having fun," said Steve, a merry twinkle in his eyes as he watched the men clustered around the table.

"Oh yeah. Dernier's been poisoning us all with mouldy cheese, and Dugan's been wrestling anyone dumb enough to sit opposite him. Morita's running the betting pool, if you want a piece of the action."

"I'll pass. I actually wanted to talk to you."

"Talk away, mon ami." Bucky gestured for Lizzie to bring a glass for Steve, and poured half of what was left of his Islay into it. "Whatcha doin' back so soon?"

Steve sighed, reminding Bucky very much of old-Steve, before his Big Change. "It's a long story."

"Sounds like we're gonna need more Scotch. Hey, Lizzie, bring the rest of the bottle!"

"Actually, I'd prefer it if we took a walk. You know, got some cool night air. Cleared your head. I don't want you tossing your cookies in our room and keeping me awake all night."

" _Our_ room?"

A wry grin crept across Steve's face. "I don't have a room yet, so I'll need to bunk with you tonight."

"I didn't hear the magic word."

"It'll be just like the old days!"

Bucky decided to let the lack of the magic word pass. "Fine. But I get the bed."

"Wouldn't have it any other way, pal. C'mon, let's take a walk, and I'll fill you in on Pirbright."

Before Steve could drag him away, he downed what was left in his glass, then what Steve had left untouched in his. Ignoring the look of disapproval on his best friend's face, he followed Steve from the pub and wrapped his arms around himself to stave off the cold night air. Really, it wasn't any colder than New York at this time of year, but it was _damp_. The air seemed constantly saturated, which made the cold even deeper.

The alcohol helped. It suffused him with its warm friendliness. And he thought he'd drunk enough tonight to keep the nightmares at bay. Tonight, he thought he might sleep without interruption, which was good, because if Steve was bunking with him, the last thing Bucky needed was to wake and worry his friend with his night terrors.

As they walked, he noticed a brand new spring in his friend's step. Ever since his brush with science, Steve had been a new man; one less burdened with cares than the one Bucky had known for most of his life. But this spring, this was something new, and Bucky knew of only one thing that could put that kinda spring in a man's step.

"So, who's the dame?"

Steve damn near fell over his own feet, and Bucky suppressed the nefarious chuckle that wanted to erupt over tormenting his friend.

"What dame? Who said anything about a dame?"

"Nobody said anything. Nobody needs to," said Bucky wisely. "I can just tell."

"Well, I _did_ just get back from dinner and drinks with Agent Carter." A guilty blush flushed across Steve's cheeks. "But that's all it was."

"I'm happy for you." Bucky clapped him hard on the shoulder. "Your babies will be smugly adorable."

"What? Buck, it was just drinks."

"And dinner," he reminded Steve with a chuckle. "Did you get the _fois gras_?"

"I don't even know what _fois gras_ is. And for your information, we had vegetable stew."

"And _pinot grigio_?"

"Why are you speaking French all of a sudden?"

"Because Dernier has been lecturing—I mean, _teaching_ —me about French cuisine. He thinks if he butters me up with fancy words like _fois gras_ , I'll be more inclined to try those poisonous cheeses he keeps trying to force on me."

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose and visibly schooled his face to patience. Bucky guess he couldn't blame his friend for being a little frustrated. He couldn't really feel the effects of alcohol, and if all he and Agent Carter had done was eat stew and drink crappy ale… yeah, Bucky could imagine that frustration.

"Okay, anyway, I was going to tell you what happened at Pirbright, right?"

"Hit me."

So, Steve told him. About Falsworth's book, about making friends, about trying to fit in, about how much he held himself back, about saving three men and being ostracised because of it. And Bucky listened, all the time wondering about what Steve and Agent Carter had discussed over dinner. Had she told him how she'd saved Bucky's life that one time, back in France? Though, really it had been Wells who'd saved his life. Carter had just… helped.

Or maybe she'd told him about the bullshit. Had she told him about that? Had vampires been mentioned? Did Steve look at Bucky and wonder just how far off the reservation his friend had gone, all because of a few pranks? As Steve came to the end of his story—something about getting lost in a tube—Bucky decided to pry. Just a little.

"So," he said, clearing his throat once it was clear Steve's part in the tale was over. "What did you and Agent Carter talk about? Over dinner, I mean."

"Family, a little. Missions, mostly."

"She, uh, tell you about the missions we went on with the SSR? In France, and Italy?"

Steve shook his head, and Bucky felt himself relax. It was bad enough that Steve had pulled him off that table in Krausberg. That Steve had seen him weak and broken. Steve didn't need to know about that whole crazy paranoia incident. If he found out, he'd probably never trust Bucky again. _Especially_ if he also found out how Bucky sacrificed people in his dreams to save himself.

"Why?" Steve asked. "Is there something you need to tell me about the SSR missions?"

"Nope. Just… y'know… killing Nazis. Battling HYDRA. I didn't know it was HYDRA at the time, of course. We… I… kinda twisted Phillips' arm." When he realised the conversation might be heading into dangerous 'dead friends' territory, he cleared his throat and deftly changed the subject. "So, what happened when you got back to London and reported to our fearless commandant?"

"Phillips finally wants to put me to use," Steve said.

'''Bout damn time," Bucky told his friend.

"For the first time in this war, we can get the jump on HYDRA."

"By 'we' you do of course mean Allied Bomber Command, right? You know how those fly-boys are just itching to hit something worthwhile." A group of RAF pilots had stopped by the _Fiddle_ a couple of nights ago, complaining about how boring it was up there, how the Luftwaffe were barely giving them a challenge. They'd also made some rather disparaging comments about the quality of the _Fiddle_ _'s_ most recent clientele… so Dum Dum had punched one of them, starting an impromptu bar brawl which had ended in a stalemate when Lizzie stepped in and threatened to ban them all for life.

"This is what I'm here for, Buck." Steve's eyes still had that wispy quality about them. He was still looking to fight the good fight. He hadn't been on the front long enough to know there _was_ no good fight… only fight. He hadn't been there, at Azzano. Hadn't lived through the facility in Austria. "This is what I was made to do. But I can't do it alone."

"Twenty bucks says you could," he quipped to his friend.

"Maybe." Steve grinned, momentarily looking like his old, self-conscious self. "But even if I could do it by myself, I don't want to. Phillips wants to give me a real command, and I think I've got the right guys in mind for my team, but I wanted to get your feel for what they might say. You've known them longer than I have."

'Who'd you have in mind?'

'Dugan, Falsworth, Morita, Dernier and Jones. They came outta Austria the best off, and I can see them working together as a team. What do you think? Would they wanna follow me, maybe take the chance to strike back at HYDRA?"

Bucky scoffed. "Probably. But I should warn you… I think they might be crazy. There's only one way to tell for sure."

"And what's that?"

"Ask 'em to join your team. Anybody who says yes is a bona-fide madman. Think you could cope with that, leading a team of crazy soldiers?"

"I think you've had too much Scotch. But there's one other guy I want on my team, and that's you."

"Me?" Bucky snorted. "I'm definitely crazy. You don't want me on your team."

"Will you at least think about it?"

"Of course. Gimme a day or so to get my head around the idea, alright?"

Until they reached the hotel, it was all Bucky thought about. Getting back out there. Getting a little payback. Finding Schmidt, and Zola, and making them pay for what they'd done to him. For the weeks of torture and deprivation and humiliation. For breaking him so bad that he wasn't even sure if there was enough pieces of him left to rebuild.

Besides, Steve'd had a taste of war; now he was about to get a full meal of it. All the Carrots and the Davies' and the Franklins and the Tippers and the Wells'… Steve hadn't had them yet, but if he went to war against HYDRA, he'd get them. There was no way in hell Bucky could let his friend go through all that alone, even if it meant throwing himself into the breach once more.

The front door of the hotel was locked after ten o'clock, so Steve and Bucky went to the night entrance and rang the door bell. One of the night staff let them in, and they made their way up to their room.

"How are you, Buck?" Steve asked, as Bucky fumbled in his pocket for the room key. "I mean really."

Bucky stopped mid-fumble and looked at his friend. He had his serious-face on. Had his serious-shoulders on, too. Bucky guessed Steve saw what Bucky saw whenever he looked in a mirror: someone who looked like death warmed up. Someone who looked like he ought to be kicking back in some recovery ward, rather than walking around playing at normalcy. But then, weren't they all? Didn't every soldier have a history full of Carrots and Tippers, and an armful of emotional baggage they carried around because it couldn't be shared? Bucky just happened to have a little more of it than most.

"I feel frayed," he admitted. "Around the edges." _And cracked and broken inside._ "Sometimes I feel like this is all a dream." _Sometimes I wake up thinking I_ _'m still on that table in Krausberg_. "All this waiting around, 'recovering'… it's not me. I need to be doing something. Anything." _I need to make those sons of bitches pay._

"I hear ya. After Project Rebirth, all I wanted was to get out here and join the fight. Instead, they had me doing choreographed fighting on stage."

Bucky swallowed his next comment. That being on a stage, fighting for the entertainment of civilians, beat fighting for real hands-down. That at least in the movies, the good guys always came out on top, and death was never permanent. But Steve wouldn't see it that way. He hadn't been out here long enough to know hardship and loss.

"Still, at least we're together again," Steve continued. "Till the end of the line, right?"

"The end of the line," Bucky agreed. However long or short that line might be.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: My apologies for being a little slow to respond to reviews over the past couple of weeks; I've been very busy preparing for a potential new job, which I was finally offered on Wednesday, following a month of preparation work and a pretty gruelling interview period. Hurrah and huzzah! This is also the reason I haven't had chance to update any of my other fics.  
_

 _On another good news front, I finished a chapter this week, and am due to finish (or almost finish) another this weekend, so the story is ticking along nicely. If you want to read any of my non-fanfic work, you can head over to my website (link on my profile) and there you can access links to many other great aspiring and accomplished authors. If you want to stretch your literary wings, feel free to join in the fun as well._


	80. No I in Team

We Were Soldiers

 _80\. No I in Team_

"He drinks a lot," said Falsworth, the next day. Steve had decided to let Bucky sleep in; he looked so peaceful huddled beneath his blanket that Steve didn't have the heart to wake him. He'd dressed as quietly as possible, then called on Falsworth for some company over breakfast. They'd found a bakery and bought themselves a couple of rolls of freshly baked bread. Now, they strolled down Leicester Square, devouring breakfast and avoiding the commuter rush.

"We all drink a lot," Steve pointed out. Actually, he himself didn't drink very much, as he no longer felt the effects, and both Falsworth and Jones drank a little less than everyone else. But drinking in the pub was still a regular ritual for Steve and his friends.

"There are different kinds of drinking."

Steve side-stepped a fast-walking woman, then rejoined Falsworth. "And what kinda drinking does Bucky do?"

"He drinks like a man trying to drown out his past." The worried frown creasing Falsworth's forehead spoke volumes.

"Has he opened up any? About Krausberg?" Steve had tried to get Bucky to talk about what he'd been through, but his friend clammed up every time the subject was raised. Said he didn't want to talk about it. In fact, Bucky was unusually taciturn about… pretty much everything. It was as if the past six months, everything that had happened since Bucky went off to Last Stop, USA, had been pushed into some giant black hole. As if none of it had ever happened. He'd gleaned more from brief conversations with Peggy and Dugan than he had from full conversations with Bucky.

Falsworth shook his head. "I tried to get him to talk about it. I tried questioning, I tried making casual observations about the place, I tried making myself available in case he randomly wanted to talk, I tried plying him with Scotch… he, err, accused me of hitting on him. After that, I decided it would be best to give him whatever space he needed."

"Thanks for trying. I appreciate you keeping an eye on him." He hadn't really expected Bucky to talk about his experiences in the HYDRA facility—he could be one heck of a stubborn guy, at times—but it had been worth a try. Now, though, Steve had more than Bucky to worry about. "How's everyone else doing?"

"Dugan, Gabe and Morita are enjoying their down-time." Falsworth's expression turned thoughtful, and he tossed his empty paper wrapper into a trash can before continuing. "But I don't think Dernier will stay much longer."

"Oh?"

"His country is still occupied by Nazis. He came here with us to report directly to the SOE and MI6 about French Resistance activities, but I think he's itching to get back to the fight. I suppose I can't blame him; he does have a brother and sister to think about. And it can't be easy for him, sitting safe in London while his people are struggling for their freedom."

Steve nodded in understanding. If Dernier really was itching to get back into the fight, then it made it all the more important that Steve get him on board with his new team. The man had considerable knowledge and experience, and he would be a huge asset. One that Steve couldn't let slip away.

"And you?"

Falsworth's eyebrows rose towards his hairline. "Me?"

"You just spent weeks toiling in an enemy work camp. How are you adjusting to everything after that?"

"It's nice to be back home," the major said. "Though I must admit, one does start to get used to the action. All this sitting around, waiting, recovering… I can understand why Jacques wants to get back into the fight. We still have a long way to go before this war is over."

After breakfast, and not wanting to return to the hotel and wake Bucky, he asked Falsworth to direct him to Kensington via the Tube, and spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon inside the British Museum of Natural History, marvelling over the displays. His favourite by far was the giant _Diplodocus_ skeleton in the central hall, and he spent a good hour sketching it in a page of his notebook. He bought a couple of postcards with a picture of the dinosaur skeleton on the front; one for Bucky's family, and another for his acting buddy, Terrence. He figured Terrence's kids would get a huge kick out of a postcard from England, especially one depicting a dinosaur skeleton.

When the hour of his appointment with Colonel Phillips drew near, he left the museum—such a huge place that he'd only managed to explore a quarter of it—and headed back to Whitehall. This time, he didn't get lost. This time, Agent Carter wasn't waiting for him, but the guard had clearly been told to expect him, because he nodded at Steve and made no move to stop him entering the rickety old service elevator.

The underground facility was again abuzz with activity. Men and women manned communications stations, whilst others clustered around maps. They glanced askance at him as he passed them; he heard mutters of _special treatment_ , and knew that it wasn't entirely unjustified. With the strings Brandt had pulled for him, and now his promotion from _nobody_ to _Captain_ , he'd cut a lot of corners. There were bound to be hurt feelings and bruised egos, over that.

Colonel Phillips' blonde-haired secretary wasn't at her desk, so Steve straightened the hem of his jacket, then reached out to knock on the door. In his chest, his heart was pounding rapidly, as if he was about to go rushing into combat. In a way, he was. Only, this fight was just as important as any pitched battle or clandestine assault.

"Come in!" a voice barked, and Steve had to fight the urge to salute then and there.

Colonel Phillips was sitting behind his desk when Steve entered, his stony face unreadable. Steve came to a stop and saluted, forcing his lips together so he couldn't ask the question he was dying to have answered.

"Take a seat, Captain Rogers," the colonel instructed. He put a dissatisfied twist on the title; Steve suspected it was going to be a while before he stopped being sore about Steve's promotion to Captain.

 _Captain Steve Rogers._

It still made him giddy to think about it.

He sat, and shuffled the chair a little closer to the desk, trying to ignore the way it scraped along the floor under his weight. "Sir, have you had a chance to look over my suggested team roster?"

Phillips grunted. From his drawer, he pulled out a brown file, a collection of dossiers, and dropped it onto the table. "Is this your idea of a joke, Rogers?"

Steve straightened up in the chair, forced his eyes to Phillips' face. A very nonmilitary thing to do, but what the heck; he'd only had three weeks' worth of basic training.

"It's no joke, sir. Each and every man in that file has proven himself, and some have very specific sets of skills which I believe will come in useful in the field."

"About the only two I can't find any exception with are Dugan and Falsworth… though Falsworth isn't a U.S. soldier, which might ruffle some feathers higher up the chain."

"I thought the SSR was an _Allied_ initiative, sir? The British are still our allies, aren't they? I mean, Agent Carter works with you, sir, and she's not a U.S. citizen, either."

"I knew you'd be one of those overly attentive types who'd actually listen to everything his SO told him," Phillips grumbled. "Fine, Falsworth is in. As for the rest of your 'team'… where do I even begin?" He reached for the dossier and opened it, pulling out the first file. "Barnes ought to be shipped back to the States for R&R with the rest of the men rescued from Austria. He's barely fit for duty."

"He will be," Steve said, as his heart twisted painfully inside his chest. Bucky would never forgive him if Steve let his best friend get shipped home. Steve knew what Phillips knew; that Bucky had been through hell, and his recovery wouldn't be an overnight process. But at least if he was here, Steve could help him.

"It's not just the physical torture he was put through that concerns me, Rogers. It's his state of mind. The sorts of things Barnes went through are enough to break a man. When you go into a fight, you need to know that every man behind you is capable and willing. That he's not going to buckle under the pressure. One weak link can bring a whole team down."

"Sir, after what Sergeant Barnes went through, I can assure you he'll be willing. He owes HYDRA a debt of pain, and he wants to make sure it's paid back." The look in Bucky's eyes as he'd shot Krausberg's commandant been cold, frightening. For a moment, Steve had lost sight of his friend. "I need a sharpshooter, sir, and from what I hear, there's nobody better than Sergeant Barnes. Besides, he spent years pulling playground bullies off me; I know he's always got my back in a fight, and there is nobody in that dossier I trust more."

A weary sigh escaped Phillips' lips. "On your head be it, Rogers. But he'll need to pass a physical before I'll authorise him for combat. I want to hear from someone with an actual medical qualification that he's fit for duty."

"I understand, sir. And I agree completely. I'm sure Sergeant Barnes will do everything he can to ensure he's fit and sound." If he knew Bucky, he'd be doing push-ups before the end of the day.

Putting Bucky's file aside, Phillips' pulled out Dernier's, and ran his eyes over it before voicing the reservations Steve had already seen coming.

"Jacques Dernier is a criminal."

"He had a rough childhood, sir. Grew up in poverty, had to learn to look out for his family."

"He has three convictions for arson and one for burglary."

"Sir, if you're worried that he's not a very _efficient_ criminal, he assures me there's a lot more he _wasn_ _'t_ caught for."

The look on Phillips' face told him that wasn't what the colonel was worried about, so Steve hurried on.

"He was honest with me from the start about his record, and the time he did in jail."

"An honest thief is still a thief, Rogers. I've read that the man's handy with explosives, but we have demolitions experts in the army. You don't need to take on a crook to do that job."

"It's not just what he can do, Colonel," Steve said quickly. "Through his time in the Resistance, he's had access to a wide network of underground contacts and informants—networks which span several countries, sir. The sort of contacts who might prove useful, out in the field." He could tell Phillips wasn't convinced, so he pushed his point home. "Dernier assures me that his life of crime is behind him. All he wants now is to help free his country. I believe he will be a valuable asset. At the very least, he deserves a chance."

"A chance," Phillips agreed. "But he's your responsibility. And at the first sign of trouble, he's out."

A grin tried to tug at Steve's lips, but he forced it away. Captain America grinning like a schoolboy would not endear the colonel to his cause.

Phillips put Dernier's file aside, and lay the other two out side by side. "General Marshall will have my head on a pole when I tell him I've allowed a French criminal into an elite team of covert operatives. Do you have any idea what he'll do when I go and tell him you want these two?"

"They're both excellent soldiers, sir."

"Jones is black and Morita's a Nip. In case you hadn't noticed, this isn't _Captain America and his Howling Commandos_ —"

"Maybe it should be." He kicked himself for interrupting, but pushed on before Phillips could upbraid him for it. "It doesn't matter to me, sir, what colour people are, or where their ancestors are from; all I care about is that they can fight, and that they're loyal. Jones and Morita _are_. If they're a problem for the brass, then I think the brass has got their priorities all wrong. I'll do whatever it takes to win this war, and I'll work with anyone who's willing to work with me. I know my choices are unorthodox—"

"Unorthodox?" Phillips growled. "Son, that's just about the biggest understatement I've heard all year."

"I know. Sir, you asked me to wipe those HYDRA bases of the map, and these are the men I need to do it. I'm sure you got flak for agreeing to work with Agent Carter—who ever heard of a woman serving in the Forces?—but you did it, and that worked out alright for you. All I'm asking for is a chance to prove myself, and I want that same chance for my team. Jones speaks German and French, and Morita's one of the best Rangers in the whole army; his record is spotless. Besides, I know _you_ don't care about the colour of a guy's skin; I remember there was at least one coloured recruit in Project Rebirth."

"I don't care, but I'm also not the one holding the SSR's purse strings. What do you think will happen when Brandt and the other politicians hear about this?"

"I expect they'll want to win the war, Colonel. And if Senator Brandt has pulled strings to get me this far, to change his mind now and show no confidence in my choices… well, I don't think it would earn him any friends."

Phillips pursed his lips before reaching out and placing the two dossiers on the pile with the others. "You'll have to train, first," he said. "Not just you; your whole team. New weapons, new equipment, tactics, strategy, teamwork… it's not enough to put a group of men together and hope they'll make something of it. You need to know what every member of your team is made of before you go into combat."

"I understand, sir. Do I have permission to go and recruit my men?"

"Permission granted."

Steve saluted, and turned for the door.

"Oh, one last thing," said Phillips. He waited for Steve to turn back before dropping his final bombshell. "I've assigned Agent Carter to be your liaison to the SSR. I hope you and your men don't have any problems taking orders from a woman."

"I'll make sure it's not a problem, sir." One of those awkward hot flushes began to creep up his neck. He'd be working with Agent Carter? Reporting to her? Seeing her on a regular basis? His palms were already turning sweaty with nerves at the thought.

"Glad to hear it. You're dismissed."

Steve just about managed to keep the skip from his step as he left the office, but he couldn't do a damn thing about the smile plastered on his face. The only down side he could see to this whole arrangement was that Bucky would now have endless opportunity to tease him about Peggy. Still, if that was the only price to pay for working with the woman who spent a frighteningly large amount of time occupying his thoughts, it was a price he would gladly pay.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _BANG BANG BANG._

"Barnes!"

Bucky opened one eye, squinted at the daylight pouring in through the open curtains, closed his eye, and rolled over in bed.

"Barnes, you lazy son of a bitch!" a cheery voice called through the door. The banging repeated, each _BANG_ making Bucky twitch where he lay as it pounded inside his skull. "Don't make me break down this door and drag your ass out of bed, boy. I'm not your mom and this isn't your palace back home."

With a groan, Bucky pushed off the eiderdown quilt and slid out of bed, his feet landing with a heavy _thud_ on the wooden floor. Some people just didn't know the meaning of R &R.

When he opened the door, he found himself looking into Dugan's grinning face. The man was a maniac. An actual maniac. He was one of the few people Bucky had met who hadn't had his soul dragged backwards through hell by the action on the front lines. Genuinely, a maniac.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Bucky groaned at him.

"Do you?" Dum Dum countered. "Damn near three o'clock, Barnes. Rogers is meeting us at the _Whip & Fiddle_ in two hours. We figured you might need that time to do your hair and get your makeup on."

"Three o'clock?" A quick glance at the clock on the wall told him Dugan was telling the truth. An even quicker glance in the mirror showed him the image of a man who looked like he'd just gone ten rounds in a ring. "Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

Dum Dum snorted, the air rushing through his generous moustache. "We figured you had a girl up here." He stuck his head into the room and glanced around it. "You have her hidden under the bed, right?"

"You're an ass. Gimme ten, and I'll meet you down in the lobby."

"Take twenty," Dugan grinned. "Wouldn't want you to rush your lipstick."

Bucky closed the door on the strongman and took a deep, steadying breath. Dugan told a good tale, but Bucky knew the truth. They let him sleep all day because Austria had hit him hard… harder than any of the others. Walking back to the Allied camp after being rescued by Steve had taken every ounce of strength he could call upon, and had damn near killed him. Dum Dum, Gabe and the others… they'd recovered quickly. By the time they got to London, they were almost back to full health, the horrors of the HYDRA workhouse put firmly behind them.

But not Bucky. He woke up at nights with the shakes. Sometimes felt his pulse race, like he'd been running a marathon even when he was sat down doing nothing but talking shit with the guys. War hit some soldiers harder than others, but this felt like more than that. He'd tried to bury the memories of what he'd experienced alone on the table in a haze of beer. Hadn't worked. Now that Falsworth had introduced him to Scotch, it was easier to reach that numb haze… but not as easy as it should've been. Now, it took half the bottle to reach the haze. And Dugan and the others, they'd seen that, too.

He made his way to the washstand and splashed cold water onto his face, letting it shock his mind fully awake. He threw on the first shirt he came across, and pulled his dusty jacket over it. When he met his reflection in the mirror, it looked no better than when he'd first woken. His face had a tinge to it that he could only describe as 'ashen'. There was a tiredness in his eyes that wouldn't leave no matter how much he slept, and a tightness around them thanks to a perpetual, dull headache that had nothing to do with last night's bottle of Islay.

"You," he told his reflection, holding up an admonishing finger which was echoed back to him,"need to pull yourself together. You're not on that table anymore. You're not back on the front. What, you think you're the only soldier to get a little shell-shock? To have nightmares? At least you weren't in one of those Jap POW camps. Get it together. Your friend needs you, and you're not done yet."

He gave his hair a quick comb, then left the hotel room and made his way downstairs. Only Dugan was present in the hotel lobby. "Sent the others on ahead to get in a first round," the big man explained. "Don't worry, we'll catch 'em up. Just promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"You'll follow each Scotch with a chaser."

"Fine, whatever," he sighed. Dugan held the lobby door open for him like he was a dame or something, but Bucky was too tired to object.

The people of London walked around like chunks of their city hadn't been recently Blitzed into little pieces. They casually ignored the rubble of bombed homes not yet rebuilt, seemed not to see the crews of men working to repair the few tube stations that had been hit. They just went about their business like it was perfectly natural to have a row of buildings reduced to rubble, a glaring gap in the skyline, whilst the buildings around remained undamaged. He'd even heard a couple of people say that they missed the nightly air raids, the chance to get down into the tunnels and catch up with friends whilst the _Luftwaffe_ tried to actually hit something worth a damn. But that was the English for you; they were as crazy as Dum Dum.

"Got any idea what Rogers wants to talk to us about?" Dugan asked, as the _Whip & Fiddle_ appeared at the end of the street.

Bucky shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine." It was, no doubt, about this whole 'take a team against HYDRA' business the brass had put into his head. Steve had left a note with the hotel concierge asking the guys to meet him in the _Fiddle_ after dinner, and Bucky could think of no other reason for him to want everybody together in one place. He'd already made his decision. There was no way Steve was going to war without his best friend to watch his back.

"Here we are," said Dugan, pulling Bucky out of his night-before reverie. He stopped outside the front door and used his fingertips to smooth the ends of his moustache. "How'd I look?"

"Like a large, hairy, ginger slug attacked your face and still hasn't figured out how to let go."

"A sight better than you, then," Dum Dum grinned, giving his bowler hat a jaunty tilt. "Lovely Lizzie likes a man who cleans up well. Most girls do, Barnes. Keep that in mind for tomorrow night, and remember; chasers after each Scotch."

"Yes, Mom."

Dugan pushed the door open, and Bucky followed him inside. The _Fiddle_ was always crowded. The British government had wisely decided not to ration beer along with everything else, and even the Germans hadn't been heinous enough to target Scotland's distilleries. London might be hungry, tired and in pieces, but at least they still had plenty to drink.

"Well, if it isn't London's favourite pair of trigger-happy Yanks," said the barmaid, when she spotted the duo arrive. "If you boys are as thirsty as your friends over there, I can see I'll have a busy night ahead of me."

"We only drink so much to keep you in a job and make you smile, Lizzie," Dugan said with a grin, making a beeline for the bar.

"Scotch," Bucky said, to the barman. When he noticed Dum Dum twirl one end of his moustache around his finger, he added, "Make that a double." Was there anything available to drink that was stronger than scotch?

"And he'll have a ginger beer, for his second drink," Dugan instructed. Bucky rolled his eyes.

"Aww, let him have his scotch," Lizzie laughed, coming to his aid. "From what I hear, you all deserve to drink as much as you like. You're all heroes."

"Damn right we are." Dugan puffed out his chest. Somehow, his moustache managed to puff out, too. "But Barnes still gets ginger beer for his second round."

Bucky took his Scotch and his ginger beer—closest thing the Brits had to rootbeer—to the back room, away from the noise and the revelry.

 _You_ _'re all heroes_.

If only she knew. If only they all knew how quickly and badly he'd broken back in Krausberg. He wasn't a hero. He was a victim. Heroes saved people. Beat the badguys. Bucky had been captured and tortured. That wasn't heroic, it was pathetic. He hadn't even been able to get out on his own. Had barely managed to walk back to camp. The _Fiddle_ was a freedom he didn't deserve.

But on the bright side, now he'd get his chance for revenge. With Steve and the rest of the team, he could hit back. Kill Zola. Kill Schmidt. Kill them all. Make the world a safer place. And maybe, just maybe, if he could stop HYDRA from doing to others what they'd done to him, he'd finally be able to get a good night's sleep.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Steve found his soon-to-be team in their usual night time haunt: the _Whip & Fiddle_. A haze of cigarette smoke lingered in the air, and a musician performed some jaunty tune on the piano. There was no space for dancing in the _Fiddle_ , but that certainly didn't stop a pair of couples from giving it their best shot. They danced their way into every free space, and Steve almost tripped over them before making it to the table he was aiming for.

Bucky wasn't at the table, but Steve spotted him through the open door to the back room, nursing a glass of what was probably Scotch at the bar. For a moment, he put his friend out of his mind. Bucky was a given, but he first had five other people to convince to join him on his crazy mission to save the world from an evil scientific genius.

"Hey fellas," said Steve, as Dugan kicked out an empty chair for him to sit on. "What's happening?"

"We're playing a new drinking game," said Morita. He held up his pint of ale as evidence. "We all think of a number between one and ten, and take it in turns to call our number out. Anyone who has the same number, drinks."

Steve looked down at the mass of empty glasses on the table. "You seem to be guessing the right numbers a lot."

"That's because we're all picking seven," said Dugan. "You want in?"

He didn't, because all drinking lots of ale did for him was give him a full bladder, but he suspected this was one of those team-building activities he had to start participating in. "Sure," he said. "But first, there's something I want to discuss with you all." He took a deep breath. Prayed that they'd all say yes. Otherwise he was going to look like some kinda fool in front of Phillips, and then he'd probably have to put up with Phillips' definition of 'the best men.'

"Well, spit it out," said Morita. "I'm not getting any younger. Better looking, but not younger."

"Alright. See, I got a promotion. I'm a captain now for real, and—"

A cheer erupted, loud enough to drown out the piano and force Steve to wince in pain. The two men closest to him, Dernier and Morita, slapped him heartily on each shoulder, while Dugan called out to the barmaid, "Lizzie, a drink for Captain America!"

Steve instinctively hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller. "Dammit, Dugan, keep quiet; I hate drawing crowds." Although it was pretty common knowledge in the _Fiddle_ that Steve Rogers was Captain America, nobody much knew what Steve looked like beneath the mask. He was mostly able to drink in peace, and it was an arrangement he was happy with.

"Anyway," he continued, "the reason for my promotion is that Colonel Phillips wants me to lead a team of men to undertake covert missions against HYDRA." And it only occurred to him after he'd said it that perhaps an open pub wasn't the best place to be discussing his secret take-down-HYDRA plans. Oh well, at least the place was noisy enough that they were unlikely to be overheard.

"You've all been guests of Schmidt," Steve continued. "You've been in the belly of the beast, and you came out mostly unscathed. What I'm offering is a chance to strike back. To bloody their noses, as they've bloodied ours."

"So, let's get this straight," said Dugan.

Jones picked right up. "We barely got out of there alive, and you want us to go back?"

Reality came crashing back in like a sledgehammer to the head. But Steve couldn't lie to them. He couldn't dress this up as something it wasn't. It would be dangerous. There would be risks. Anybody captured by HYDRA a second time probably wouldn't be given the opportunity to make it a third.

"Pretty much," he agreed.

"Sounds rather fun, actually," said Falsworth, sporting a childish grin.

Morita belched loudly, and said, "I'm in."

Dernier rambled off something in French, and Jones responded in kind. Whatever they said ended with a laugh and a handshake, and Jones said, "We're in."

All eyes fell on the imposing figure of Dugan, his cheeks flushed pink under the effect of alcohol. "Hell, I'll always fight," the big man said. He raised his glass in a mock toast. "But you gotta do one thing for me."

"What's that?"

Dugan downed his half-pint of ale and slammed the glass down with enough force to shake the table; but not enough to shatter the glass. He wasn't a fool, and he didn't want to incur the wrath of Lizzie. "Open a tab."

As the rest of the men laughed, Steve collected the empty glasses and took them back to the bar. "Another round," he told the barman.

"Where are they putting all this stuff?" the barman complained. But it was a complaint filled with mirth; no doubt business had been good since Steve and his new team arrived in London.

With five little ducks already lined up in a row, Steve turned towards his last. Bucky was still nursing his drink alone, and he looked no better than he had on the journey back to camp from Krausberg. His hair was messy, his shirt was dirty and open at the collar, the jacket he wore hung off his shoulders, and dark circles ringed his eyes. Unlike the other men to come out of Krausberg, Bucky wasn't getting better. In fact, he seemed to be getting worse.

Maybe what he needed was a change of scenery. Get out there, away from all the Scotch, and get fit again. Fight some Nazis and put some wrongs to right.

Taking a deep breath, Steve walked towards his oldest friend.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The _Fiddle_ had run out of Islay, but the barman had given him something called Glen…Glen…something. The _Glensomething_ wasn't as smooth as the Islay, but it was nice enough, and a whole lot better than the warm pisswater the rest of the guys were drinking. It was a pity Stark wasn't here, with his two-hundred-dollar bottles of Scotch. Say what you might about the guy, he had excellent taste in whisky.

A large shadow fell across his glass, and a sardonic smile twisted his lips. "See, I told you. They're all idiots." He'd heard the cheers from the main room and already knew how Steve's recruitment had gone.

"How 'bout you?" Steve asked, sliding into the seat beside him. "You ready to follow _Captain America_ into the jaws of death?"

"Hell no," Bucky scoffed. "That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight… I'm following him." After all, he'd known Steve a lot longer than he'd known Captain America, and super-serum or no super-serum, he was still Steve at his heart. Still that same awkward punk who wouldn't ask a dame to dance in case one of them actually said _yes_.

He took a sip of his _Glensomething_ and leant towards Steve, as if sharing some great secret. "But you're keeping the outfit, right?"

Steve's gaze travelled across the room, to the Captain America poster pinned to the wall. It featured Steve, in his Star-Spangled Uniform, full on head-tilt, giving the cheesiest salute Bucky had ever seen. He could actually imagine what Wells would say, if he were here to see it. _Gee, I bet that poster is pinned up in a lot of Navy lockers._ The poster had a big 'Tour Cancelled' banner plastered across it. Captain America had been officially conscripted.

"Y'know what?" said Steve. "It's kinda growing on me."

Lizzie arrived with a glass of ale for Steve, then disappeared back into the crowd. In the main room, Dugan and the others began singing along to the piano song, half of them out of tune, the other half making up the words they didn't know.

"I'm gonna need you to cut back on the drinking, Buck," Steve said. "Phillips wants us to do training before he sends us out in the field, and I get the feeling it's gonna be pretty intensive. And when we're out there, there's not going to be any Scotch."

He grimaced. Should'a known getting back into the thick of things would mean sacrifices. "Is it too late to change my mind? I jest, I jest," he assured his scowling friend. "This glass of _Glensomething_ right here will be my last drink. I promise." Luckily, he had a hip flask back in his room that was full to the brim. It might take the edge off the worst.

"Alright, but—"

Before he could finish, there was a cessation of singing—thankfully—from the main room. Bucky craned his neck around the doorway and saw a vision in red approach. Glossy brown hair, killer pins and a figure to die for… it was only as she stepped through the door that he realised it was Agent Carter. His eyes damn near popped out of his head. _Carter_ in a _dress_? Was she sick?

Her eyes went straight to Steve's face, and she appeared completely oblivious to the silence she'd caused. "Captain."

Steve was on his feet in a heartbeat, straightening his jacket, aiming for an extra inch of height that he no longer needed. "Agent Carter," he said. Bucky could almost _feel_ Steve's blush from where he stood.

When Carter finally glanced at Bucky, he offered a polite "Ma'am." She barely even acknowledged him; just went straight back to looking at Steve. Bucky suspected his friend was the reason for the dress. His friend was one lucky S.O.B.

"Howard has some equipment for you to try. Tomorrow morning?" she said. It sounded more like a personal invitation than a request for Steve to test equipment.

"Sounds good," said Steve. His eyes had the dewy, head-over-heels look about them. It was nice to see it in Steve. The few girls he'd been interested in back home had barely given him the time of day. In fact, he'd once asked one what time it was, and she'd practically blanked him. Maybe now, things would be different. Steve was no longer the underdog, and Agent Carter was definitely not the shallow, judge-a-book-by-its-cover type. Otherwise she would've fallen for Wells' bullshit months ago.

The singing resumed, alas, and drew Agent Carter's attention. "I see your top squad is prepping for duty," she said, managing to inject about a dozen undertones of disapproval into her voice.

"You don't like music?" Bucky asked. She'd certainly been a killjoy out in the field, but spoiling the fun of men enjoying what might be their last night of freedom was something else entirely.

"I do, actually." She managed to reply to Bucky without even looking at him once. In fact, her gaze was so focused on Steve, and his on her, that Bucky suspected the rest of the world had just stopped existing for both of them. "I might even, when this is all over, go dancing."

Bucky couldn't help himself. The words were outta his mouth even though he knew they'd be pointless, and he blamed _Glensomething_ entirely. "Then what are we waiting for?"

A coy smile graced her lips as she continued to pretend he didn't exist. "The right partner. Oh-eight hundred, Captain."

She turned and sauntered away, and Steve called, "Yes, ma'am. I'll be there," after her.

"I'm invisible," Bucky joked. "I'm turning into you. It's like a horrible dream."

"Don't take it so hard," said Steve, giving him a consolatory pat on the shoulder. He managed to affect sangfroid despite red tint of his ears. "Maybe she's got a friend."

"Laugh it up, Rogers. I might be on the sidelines right now, but I'll be back in the game soon enough."

He wasn't sure if Steve believed it, but he didn't question it. Truth was, he didn't know what the game _was_ anymore. Back home, it had been easy. Work hard, look out for his siblings, find a pretty girl to spend time with. It had been an easy game, and fun. Now, the game was deadly. It was finding enough to drink every night. It was trying to get through a day without having the shakes. He didn't think this was something that could be fixed with music and dancing. HYDRA had taken a piece of him, on that cold metal table, and he had to find a way to take it back.

* * *

 _Author's note: Very sorry for not getting around to responding to reviews this week; I've been really busy with various things. I'll try to do better next week!_


	81. Kisses

We Were Soldiers

 _81\. Kisses_

Whitehall was quiet as Steve made his way towards the SSR's secret building. Phillips had sent a message to the hotel, telling Steve that in two days' time, he and the other men in his team would be commencing their special training. The message filled him with equal parts excitement and trepidation. One the one hand, he was looking forward to learning new things to help him in the fight against Dr. Erskine's murderer. On the other hand, he had a lot to prove, not just for himself, but for his team. He wanted this to work. He _needed_ it to work.

As usual, the bunker was a hive of activity as he stepped out of the service elevator. He glanced around for a familiar face, and was disappointed when he didn't find it. He'd been hoping Agent Carter would be there to greet him, but either she was indisposed, or she hadn't arrived yet. Or maybe she just had better things to do. After all, she wasn't _just_ his liaison to the SSR, she was also an accomplished soldier and spy.

Phillips' secretary was eyeballs deep in an old copy of _The Stars and Stripes_ newspaper when Steve passed by the colonel's door. He hadn't seen any of the complex beyond the main hub and Phillips' office, so he decided it was time to ask for directions.

"Excuse me," he said, "I'm looking for Mr. Stark."

"He's in with Colonel Phillips." She glanced up at his face, and a smile that he could only describe as _predatory_ slid across her lips. "Of course, you're welcome to wait."

He didn't want to wait. He didn't like the look of the smile. Even Rita Hayworth had managed a more genuine smile than that. But he could hardly leave now. His meeting with Stark was in five minutes, and there was no waiting area down here. So, he gestured at a mostly empty desk, and perched on the edge, hands clasped in front of him to stop himself toying with one of the buttons on his jacket.

"I read about what you did," the woman said, turning the newspaper to its headline and holding it up for him to see. _400 Prisoners Liberated_. He hadn't realised they were still running that story.

"Oh, the… Yeah," he said, real smooth. How the hell did Bucky do this? Steve was just about coping with talking to Agent Carter, but she was easy to talk to. Straight-forward. And her smiles were sincere, her eyes soft and warm when she looked at him… not cold and calculating, like this Private's. He really wished his best friend were here right now. "Well, that's, y'know…" he offered. She continued to watch him, and he cleared his throat. "Just doing what needed to be done."

"Sounded like more than that," she said, reclining against her desk, leaning against it with one arm, giving him an open view of _everything_. God, where was he supposed to look? He couldn't look at her eyes, because they said they wanted to eat him alive. He couldn't look further down, because despite her shirt being buttoned all the way to the top, her pose accentuated her… curves. And even further down, her hand brushed against her thigh, whilst the foot of one leg, draped over the other, circled slowly, drawing his attention to what he guessed were very nice legs, if you were into that sort of thing. In the end, he settled for darting his gaze around the room, trying to find _something_ to fixate on. "You saved nearly four-hundred men."

"Really, it's not a big deal," he said, breaking his awkward silence, praying in his head for somebody, _anybody_ , to come along and help him out.

"Tell that to their wives," the private said. She stood, hips swaying as she approached, gaze heating up with every step she took.

Steve quickly crossed his arms in his best attempt to retreat into himself. Unfortunately, he had rather a lot of _self_ these days. All he managed was to clench uncomfortably on the edge of the desk. "Uh, I don't think they were all married," he offered lamely. _What would Bucky say?_

"You're a hero," she said, stepping right into his personal space. Her spicy perfume made him want to sneeze; he held it back. Then he realised sneezing on her might've encouraged her to step back. _Idiot._

"Well, that depends on the definition, really."

Her hand shot out, and before he even realised what was happening, she'd grabbed his tie. "The women of America, they owe you their thanks," she breathed huskily. Despite his height and weight, she stepped back, pulling him with her, his jelly-legs betraying him. Back and back again she stepped, until they were both obscured from the rest of the room by a pair of tall metal shelves. "And seeing as they're not here…"

It happened before he could stop it. With her free hand, she grabbed the lapel of his jacket and pulled him down as she stood on her tiptoes and rose up to meet him. Her eyes fluttered closed as her lips pressed against his, her mouth soft, her breath warm against his cheek. A thousand thoughts tumbled through his head, and fell silent. He'd never kissed anyone before, and he was completely and utterly lost. He wanted to reach out and stop it, but he wasn't sure how. He wasn't even sure whether he was enjoying it. All he knew was that he hadn't wanted it to be like this. When he thought of kissing someone, it wasn't some random blonde who'd read one too many heroic headlines.

"Captain!" a cultured voice barked.

Steve leapt back and felt his insides turn to ice. Peggy stood watching, hands on her hips, eyes unusually hard. _Oh God._ How long had she been standing there? How much had she seen? Surely she knew this was a mistake, right? After all, they'd had a moment, last night. She'd been staring into his eyes, shooting Bucky down, and she'd made him a promise, to go dancing. Had he ruined that? Should he have tried harder to push Private Whatevername away?

"We're ready for you, if you're not otherwise occupied," she said, her voice so frosty he was surprised it didn't start snowing then and there. And in that moment, he knew; he'd ruined it. He'd had a chance to go dancing with the most amazing woman in the world, and he'd screwed it up.

She turned and marched away while Steve was still wiping the blonde's lipstick from his lips. It was all he could do to keep up with her, and she didn't look back even once. She was angry. He could tell by the set of her shoulders. And that was fair. Anger, he could deal with. He just didn't want her to be disappointed. He couldn't deal with disappointment.

"Agent Carter, wait," he said as he reached her side.

"Looks like finding a partner wasn't that hard after all," she said, her gaze fixed on the door ahead.

"Peggy, that's not what you thought it was." He straightened his skewed tie and jacket as she quietly scoffed.

"I don't think anything, Captain, not one thing. You always wanted to be a soldier, and now you are. Just like all the rest." She couldn't hide the anger in her voice, and Steve suspected she wasn't even trying. It cut him, deep, that she saw him like that. That to her, he was no different to Hodge or—unfair as it might be to lump his friend in with guys like that—Bucky.

"Well, what about you and Stark?" he asked, recalling their innuendo-laden conversation in the plane over Austria. "How do I know you two haven't been… fondue-ing?"

He knew as soon as the words left his lips that he'd said the wrong thing. She stopped and turned, and if the look she'd given him before was frosty, this one had all the heat of a volcano; and not in a good, smoldering sort of way. Just as he thought she might actually lash out and kick him somewhere entirely deserved, she turned and opened a door to a science lab.

"You still don't know a bloody thing about women."

Steve hurried after her, lest the secured lab door slam closed in his face. Inside the lab, Howard Stark and a bunch of technicians were hard at work. Stark's lab coat was a little singed around the edges, and his face was a patchwork of soot, but as soon as he saw Steve, he took the coat off and tossed it at one of the other scientists. It landed on the guy's head, dislodging his spectacles. Stark seemed not to notice.

"Captain Rogers is here for his upgrade," Peggy told the billionaire genius. "I'm sure the two of you will have a great time, seeing as how you have so much in common."

And with that she stormed off without waiting for a response. Steve half considered going after her, but that would mean having _that_ conversation in the middle of a crowded lab. He didn't want that. She deserved more than to be a public spectacle.

"Well," said Stark, both eyebrows raised in surprise, "I know _I_ haven't done anything to piss her off for at least three days. It must be something you did."

"More like something I _didn_ _'t_ do," Steve said with a sigh. Something like pushing the blonde private away before she could lock her lips onto his. In retrospect, he _definitely_ hadn't liked the kiss. It had been empty. Meaningless. What made kissing special, he realised, was what made dancing special: the right partner.

 _Yeah, wax philosophical about something you have zero experience of. Real smart, Rogers._

"Those are the worst," Stark agreed, oblivious to Steve's inner turmoil. "Birthdays, anniversaries… there's lots of things a guy doesn't do that can get him in the wrong sorta trouble."

Steve eyed the billionaire warily. So far, Stark had proven himself to be an unpredictable ally, at least as far as rescuing Bucky had been concerned. He also had a lot of experience with women. Maybe he could help.

"Say, you're pretty knowledgable, right, Mr. Stark?"

"That's what they tell me." Stark grinned like a naughty schoolboy. "And what I tell myself. Every night before bed. To the mirror."

"What's fondue?"

"Fondue? That's just cheese and bread, my friend."

"Really? I didn't think—"

"Nor should you, pal." Stark gestured for Steve to follow him into another room. It only occurred to him after he stepped through the door that the thing was actually blast-proof. "The moment you think you know what's going on in a woman's head is the moment your goose is well and truly cooked." He gestured to a table full of objects, some of which looked wildly exotic and completely inexplicable. "Me, I concentrate on work, which at the moment is about making sure you and your men do not get killed."

Stark led the way to the first table and reached out to touch some sort of moulded material. Steve guessed it was body armour of some new design.

"Carbon polymer," the scientist explained. "Should withstand your average German bayonet. Although, HYDRA's not going to attack you with a pocket knife."

 _No, but Peggy might._

"I hear you're kind of attached," Stark continued, rapping his knuckles on the shield now peppered with bullet-holes and scorched by flames. Steve's adventures in Krausberg had not come without a price, and the shield was now useless.

"It's handier than you might think," Steve told him. It had certainly saved his life more than once.

"I took the liberty of coming up with some options," said Stark. He directed Steve to a row of shields lain out on a work bench. Some of the designs were so outlandish they wouldn't have looked out of place in a _Flash Gordon_ flick. "This one's fun." He gestured to one with strange protrusions built into the front. It didn't so much resemble a shield, as a medieval torture device. In his head, Steve named it _the violator_. "She's been fitted with electrical relays that allow you to—"

"What about this one?" Steve asked, catching sight of something small, round, and less likely to earn him a whole new nickname.

Stark hand-waved the suggestion away. "No no, that's just a prototype."

Prototype or not, something about it appealed to the artist in him. He picked it up, surprised at how light it felt even for him. "What's it made of?"

"Vibranium. It's stronger than steel, and a third of the weight. It's completely vibration absorbent," Stark explained as Steve slid his arm through the hooks built into the back.

"How come it's not standard issue?" The thing was a work of art, and sounded practical to boot. Surely if every soldier was kitted out with vibranium armour, the war would be quickly won.

"That's the rarest metal on Earth. What you're holding there, that's all we got."

It was perfect. The rarest metal on Earth for the rarest guy on Earth. Thanks to Dr. Erskine's sad and untimely demise, there would never be another man like him, and Schmidt didn't count because he was evil incarnate. No wonder Steve had felt so drawn to the vibranium shield. It was fate.

A pair of heels clicking down the corridor heralded the approach of Agent Carter. If Steve had thought a fifteen minute break may have cooled Peggy's temper, her first words swiftly put paid to that notion.

"Are you done here, Mr. Stark? I'm sure the Captain has some unfinished business."

Hoping to smooth her ruffled feathers, Steve turned and held up the shield in front of his chest. "What do you think?"

She moved so fast that he barely had time to process it. One moment she was freezing him to the spot with her glare, the next she was picking up a gun from the workbench beside her and aiming it directly at what he knew was his heart.

 _BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG._

He didn't feel the bullets hit, because true to Stark's claims, the shield was vibration-proof, but he felt each _bang_ inside his chest as clear is if she'd hit her target. This was definitely not something she was going to forgive easily.

"Yes, I think it works." She put the gun back on the bench and strode right past him with her chin held high. He stepped aside to stop her walking _over_ him, because super-strength or not, he didn't think he couldn't stopped her right then.

Stark, who'd been sheltering behind a table during the impromptu weapons test, rejoined Steve, his gaze following the departing Peggy. Steve decided it would be a good time to change the subject.

"I had some ideas about the uniform," he said, handing over the notes he'd made before bed last night.

"Whatever you want, pal," said Stark.

 _Yeah, I wish,_ he thought. If only he _could_ have whatever he wanted. Why did affairs of the heart have to be so hard? He put the question to the smartest mind in the room.

"Anything worth having is always going to be hard to get," Stark opined. "That's how you know it's worth the trouble. If it's easy, you know it's not worth the paper it's written on."

"Even for you?"

"For everyone, pal. I may be a genius, but do you think I got here without putting in a bucketload of effort? I grew up poor, and my folks had little to call their own. Blood, sweat and tears. That's how I got where I am today. It does help to be a genius, of course, but it's not always necessary, especially not when you're focused on the heart, rather than the mind. Just give Peggy some time. She'll come around."

"And if time doesn't help?"

"Diamonds. Lots and lots of diamonds." Stark gave him a quick visual once-over. "Though I guess on your budget it's flowers. Lots and lots of flowers."

Steve simply nodded. He wasn't sure if there were enough flowers in the world to make up for his mistakes. He wasn't even sure whether he deserved to be forgiven.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Inside her cupboard of an office at the back of the SSR bunker, Peggy fumed. She fumed at Steve, she fumed at Private Lorraine, but most of all, she fumed at herself. She'd noticed before the coy glances that the blonde-haired women had given to Steve, but when Steve hadn't reacted, she'd thought nothing of it. Of course, Steve had probably been completely oblivious, so that when Private Lorraine struck, he had all the chance of a rabbit in the headlights.

That she felt sorry for him only increased her anger towards him. He wasn't some helpless child, and he never had been. He was a grown man, and he was physically capable of stopping a kiss if he wanted to. That he hadn't stopped it… well, he was free to do whatever he liked. Just as she was.

To prove that she didn't owe him even another moment's thought, she picked up the telephone on her desk and dialled a number from memory. After three rings, a male voice answered.

" _Agent Pollard."_

"Francis, it's Peggy."

" _Peggy? Well, this is a surprise. I didn't think I'd hear from you until our next check up with Kaufmann, and that's not for another week."_

"I know. Actually, I'm going to miss that appointment; I have a new task, training some new recruits in military strategy." Funny that just a few hours ago, she'd actually been looking forward to working with Steve. Now, she was dreading it. Not that it would stop her from doing her job to the best of her abilities.

" _Sounds like fun. Sorry I'll miss you next week."_

"Yes. About that." She hesitated only long enough for the image of Steve with his hands on _that woman_ _'s_ waist to come flickering back into her mind. "Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night? It's the only chance I'll have to get away before I have to leave."

" _I'd love to!"_ There was such happy surprise in Pollard's voice that Peggy momentarily hated herself. But it was just dinner. And she was just going to dinner with Francis to prove to herself that she didn't owe anything to Steve. She could have dinner with a man and still have a good time. She could spend time with a member of the opposite sex and, unlike some people, not end up locking lips with said person. _"What time should I pick you up?"_

"How does seven sound?"

" _Seven works for me. I'd say 'wear something nice,' but you always look stunning no matter what you wear. I'll see you tomorrow."_

"Tomorrow," she agreed, and placed the handset back in its cradle.

That done, she sank down on her chair, and belatedly recalled Sergeant Barnes' offer to go dancing. She was half tempted to take him up on it… but then, as Steve's best friend, he would probably turn her down. She knew he'd only been joking when he suggested it the first time, and she'd already made it perfectly clear that she had no interest in him.

No, this was definitely the best way. The only way. A night out was just what she needed to remind her that the world did not start and end with Steve Rogers.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky was staying true to his word. He'd agreed to meet Steve for a little lunch-time sightseeing, and so far he was stone cold sober. It hadn't been easy, but he'd left his hip-flask behind, and he was feeling… kinda okay. A little shaky, but probably nothing that a hearty lunch wouldn't fix.

As if on cue, Steve strolled down the street towards Regent's Park, two large newspaper-wrapped packets in his hands. Bucky stood up from the bench he was sharing with a curiously tame pigeon and went to greet his friend.

"How'd the Stark thing go?" he asked as he accepted one of the delicious-smelling packages. Fish and chips. The British couldn't do beer, but they had at least got fish and chips right.

"Long story," said Steve. He looked weary, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

"You're full of those lately." Bucky started to unravel is lunch, then paused as something occurred to him. "Uh, if Stark told you any stories about me, they're all bullshit."

"He didn't even mention you."

"Oh. Good." He took a bite out of the battered fish. It was heaven. "So, should we do this?"

"Yeah. I wanna take my mind off things."

Together, they made their way towards the entrance of London Zoo. There was no queue, so as soon as they'd paid the entrance fee, they were ushered through the gates. It had been a long time since Bucky had been to a zoo; he and Steve had been to the Brooklyn Zoo during a school field trip, but that had been fifteen years ago, or close enough. As a kid, he'd loved seeing all the different animals, and he suspected that was why Steve had suggested this little outing today. Something to remind them both of home.

"Let's see the lions first," Bucky suggested, at the same time that Steve said, "We should go see the tigers!"

They both grinned, and suddenly they were eleven years old again, arguing about their favourite animal in Brooklyn Zoo.

"You always loved that Blake poem," Bucky said.

"C'mon, _'what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry'_ , even you've gotta appreciate that imagery."

"You're talking to an English major, pal. But you know the lion is the king of the jungle, right?"

"Ahh, but it says in this little guidebook," said Steve, holding up a thin paper pamphlet the lady behind the counter had given him, "that the lions on display here are _African_ lions. So technically, they're kings of the Savannah."

Bucky glared at him. "I hate you so much, Mr. Always-Gotta-Be-Right."

Steve laughed, and in the end, they compromised. They went to the newly-reopened aquarium, and enjoyed the under-water displays. Steve brought out his notebook and sketched a group of seahorses bullying a starfish. Bucky tapped on the side of the tank, and those little seahorse bastards swam away in fright.

"I wonder where all the kids are," Bucky mused as they left the aquarium. Zoo on a Saturday ought to have been full of kids, but most of the people wandering the gently undulating paths were adults.

A nearby zoo employee, who'd overheard the question, offered an explanation.

"A lot of London tykes got evacuated out to the country," he said.

"Why?" asked Steve.

The zoo guy looked at him as if he was mad. "Because of the air-raids, ain't it? Keeps the kids safe if London gets hit bad-like. We mostly get adults or families who lost their pets at the start of the war."

"Because… of the air-raids?" Bucky asked, confused. How people could lose their pets in the Blitz but not lose their own lives was a mystery.

"Nah. On account of a lot of people took their pets to be put down when war broke out."

"What?! Why?"

That look again. Guy was probably thinking, _crazy dumb Yanks._ "To spare them from dying in agony or by starvation. Course, there's not much starvation, really. A lotta people who come here are real sad about killin' their pets, but it's good for business. Anyway, I have to go feed the marmosets. Cheerio!"

"Can you believe that?" Bucky asked his friend. "Who the hell kills their pet just because war's broken out?"

"Yeah." Steve looked devastated, and Bucky regretted the way the conversation had gone.

"Let's not think about it. Who knows, maybe some of those animals really were spared some suffering."

"It's not that," said Steve. "I've made a horrible mistake, and I don't know how to fix it."

Bucky gestured to a nearby bench overlooking the meerkat enclosure. "Sit. Tell me about it. Maybe I can help."

So they sat. Steve took a deep breath. Steeled himself. "Today, when I went for my meeting with Stark, I was a little early. And Phillips' secretary was there. You know the one?"

"Yeah. Blonde, about five-eight in heels? Killer pins."

Steve swallowed. "That's her. We got to talking. Really, she was doing most of the talking. She kept telling me I was a hero. And then… well… she kissed me."

Bucky reclined backwards until his back hit the bench, and let out a low whistle. "Good for you. It's about time you got a little action. Though I'm not really seeing the horrible mistake. Unless… did her mouth taste like ashtray?" He hated kissing women who smoked.

"The horrible part is, Pe—I mean, Agent Carter walked in on us before I could even think about stopping it."

Ahh. "That's… unfortunate." He knew how sweet Steve was on Carter. And vice versa. "Give her some time. She might eventually forgive you."

"She shot a gun at me," Steve said. "Four times."

Bucky ran his gaze over his friend, looking for bullet-holes. Thankfully, there were none. "You're bullet-proof, now?"

"No, I was testing a new shield."

He sat up a little straighter. "Really? How did it perform?"

"Bucky! Could you focus on my _actual_ problem for a moment? I think I've really messed things up. How can I convince her to forgive me? I mean, it was just a kiss. I know it's a big thing, but it wasn't something I enjoyed, or even wanted. How long do you think she'll stay mad at me for?"

All his life, Bucky had been trying to give Steve advice about girls. And now, when his advice was most needed, he didn't know what to say. This was a problem he'd never had before. Sure, there were times when he'd liked many girls at once, but he'd never been dumb enough to go behind their backs. His dad would've killed him, for a start. Nor did he have any experience of 'accidental' or 'mistaken' kissing. He guessed that being caught in the act, like Steve had, was more akin to being caught stealing than anything else. That also was not something Bucky had experience of, but at least he could give some advice from there.

"All I know is, dames do things a lot faster than we do. I don't mean getting to second base or third base or anything like that, but by the time they've had a third date, they've already got their wedding dress picked out and the invitation cards written." Steve looked at him with equal parts horror and confusion. "Oh, and they try on your surname, too. Just to make sure if fits with their own name. So, even though you've only had two dates with Agent Carter—"

"One date," Steve corrected. "And it wasn't officially a date."

"What about that guy you killed together, back in Brooklyn?"

Steve stared at him long and hard for a moment. "Buck, if killing people together was analogous to dating, then you've been on more dates with Peggy than I have."

He had a point. "Alright, one sorta-date. But even if nothing happened, Carter's already planned about ten dates ahead. Like I said, women do things faster. So, that means you gotta do something really sincere to make it up to her, since she's just one date away from being engaged to you, inside her head."

"Stark suggested flowers."

Bucky waved his hand, dismissing that idea. "Flowers are too impersonal. Do you know whether she even _likes_ flowers?"

Steve shifted on the bench, suddenly that awkward eighteen year old again, just about to ask Bucky's sister, Mary-Ann, to prom. "I thought all dames liked flowers?"

"Most, but not all. What if she gets hayfever? Or what if you pick a sort of flower that was laid on her brother's grave, or something sad like that?"

Steve looked even more wretched than before, and Bucky's heart went out to him. He wished he could give his luck and experience with dames to his friend—God knew _he_ wasn't using it right now. But Steve had stumbled into his own mess, and only Steve could get out of it. He was pretty sure Agent Carter would be able to spot any advice he gave to his friend a mile away, and Steve was such a genuine guy that he really was better off figuring it out on his own.

"Look, I don't know how you're going to make things right with Carter, but I _do_ know that you're not going to buy your way out of it. You might think of this as a mistake, but from her point of view, you stole her dreams. Stole them and trampled on them. That's not something you can just give back, and you can't use flowers as a band-aid."

"That's what I was afraid of," Steve admitted with a sigh. "Y'know, Stark told me something else. He said if something's worth having, it's always hard to get."

"I guess that's one way of measuring its worth. If you have to work for it, and if there's a chance of losing it, you'll certainly appreciate having it more. As for fixing things with Carter… be yourself. She'll either forgive you, or she won't, but you can't force the matter."

Steve ran his hand through his hair and let out a long, slow breath. His gaze was turned inward, away from the frolicking antics of the meerkats in their exhibit. "I wish I could go back and do it again. Do it differently. You ever feel like that?"

A quiet, humourless chuckle escaped his lips. "Every damn day, pal." But he wasn't gonna make the mood any more maudlin than it already was. "C'mon, let's go take a look at those tigers. I'll even let you recite Blake to me."

"Thanks," said Steve, managing a brief smile. "You're a real pal."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The goats hated Danny, and the feeling was mutual. One of the billies tried to gore him every time it saw him, and several of the nannies were adept at kicking over the milk pail whenever he switched them over. To get his revenge, he told them a fairytale his third-grade teacher had regaled to her class of impressionable young minds; the one involving three billy-goats, a bridge and a troll. Only, he changed the ending, so that the troll won the battle for the bridge and ate all three goats.

It didn't seem to be having much of an effect on Rosa's livestock.

"What's the trick to stopping them kicking over the buckets?" he asked Adalina, who was tossing down hay from the loft above.

Her face appeared, pink-cheeked, her dark hair shot with strands of yellow-gold hay. "Be firm. Show them who is boss."

"They are," he grumbled. "Stupid goats."

Adalina laughed, and came down to rescue him from his own ineptitude. Since his first visit to the village, nearly three weeks ago, he'd been twice more, once with Rosa, to help her trade some cheeses for other food, and once with Adalina, to the same place she'd taken him last time. Each time, he'd gotten suspicious stares, but the villagers seemed to be accepting his presence a little more easily now. At least, he hadn't been accused of being a member of the Gestapo again.

"Can I tell you something?" she asked, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes as she got to work on the next goat. Danny did a round of the stalls, to make sure they were all bolted shut.

"Of course. Do I have to promise to keep it a secret, or something?"

"Is not secret." She smiled warmly. "Is my birthday tomorrow."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?! I could'a got you a birthday present when I went into the village with Rosa. Not that I have any money to buy presents with. But I could'a made you something, maybe." Was it possible to make moonshine out of cheese?

She shrugged. "Is no big… ah…deal?"

He nodded in encouragement. Her English was coming along in leaps about bounds; much faster than his attempts at Italian. He was understanding a lot more, but he was still far from fluent.

"Of course it's a big deal. Everybody should get presents on their birthday." Not that he'd had much in the way of that, growing up. When he'd been very young, one of his teachers had told him that being born on Independence Day meant he was special. He'd then gone home and told his parents that his teacher said he was special, and found out they didn't share that sentiment. From then on, he'd gotten a present every year, but the focus had always been on celebrating America, rather than celebrating the date of his birth.

"Well, there is one thing I would like," she said.

"If I can get it for you, I will," he promised. "What is it?"

She stood and faced him, brushing back a stray lock of hair, tucking it behind her ear. For the first time since meeting her, she seemed younger than her eighteen years. When she looked up to him and smiled, it was both hesitant and hopeful.

"I have never kissed a boy before."

"Then I'm afraid you're out of luck. I'm not a boy."

A perplexed frown creased her forehead. "You are a girl?"

"No, I'm a man." The deepening frown told him she didn't understand. "Paolo is a boy. Men are older than… gee, I dunno. Let's say, twenty."

"Ahh." The frown morphed into another smile. "I have never kissed a man before, either."

"What about Benito?"

"Benito?" He had to hand it to her; she had puzzled frowns down to an art

"He likes you." That much was obvious. Surely she'd seen it herself? Danny wasn't opposed to kissing dames, unresolved feelings towards his friend aside, but he didn't want to step on any toes or be the source of any bad blood. God knew, the last thing he needed right now was a jilted admirer to contend with.

"Benito likes me since we are little," she explained. "He is nice, but he is not like you."

"Like me?"

"You are not like other men." She reached up to brush some of the too-long hair away from his eyes. "You are funny and clever and fun to be with. And I would like you to kiss me, for my birthday."

It sounded do-able. Kissing. He could handle that. He was pretty good at it, too, or so he'd been told. He had but one caveat.

"Only if you promise to never, ever tell your father."

"Of course I never tell Papa!" She sounded so scandalised by the very idea that he decided it was worth the risk. Besides, it wasn't as if he had any other birthday present to give her.

"Okay. Then, close your eyes," he instructed.

"Why?"

"Because the best kisses are done with your eyes closed. That way you can pretend you're kissing somewhere with a nice view, instead of standing ankle-deep in goat manure."

She laughed at his suggestion, but closed her eyes just the same. In the near-silence of the barn, he could hear her breath come more rapidly in anticipation. Before he could talk himself out of it, he stepped into the gap between them, lowered his head, and met her lips in a ticklish-soft kiss. Unlike her, he kept his eyes open, afraid of where his mind might take him if he let the stable and the goat manure fall away. This was his anchor. His reality. It might not have been the reality that his heart wanted, but it was a good and sensible reality that any man in his right mind would be happy to have.

Adalina pulled away. She opened her eyes, and smiled. "That was okay?"

"That was perfect," he assured her, trying his hardest to match her smile.

"I think second time is better."

She stood on her tiptoes and leant into him, and there was little he could do but oblige her. This time, she was more confident, her kiss firmer, more sure. She let her lips mould to his, soft and giving, and his eyes instinctively began to close.

He stepped back quickly, pulling away before his mind could take him elsewhere. Adalina looked a mixture of shocked and confused.

"Sorry," he said, rolling his shoulder. "Bending like that, it hurts my arm."

"Oh!" She covered her mouth, eyes widening in horror. "I am sorry. I forget you are still hurting. I was… _egoista_."

"Not at all." He quickly took her hand before he could ruin the whole experience for her. "For a moment, for the first time since being shot, I actually forgot about the pain." It was the truth. He'd been so focused on staying in the moment that the pain had melted away.

At that moment, the goat Adalina had been milking kicked out at the half-full bucket, sloshing milk everywhere—including Danny's boots.

"Damn goat," he growled at it. "I'll make sure the troll eats you _first_."

Adalina laughed and shepherded the goat back to its stall. "You should go clean shoes," she said. "I will finish goats."

"Are you sure? I mean, I know what an immense help I am with them," he said drily.

"Am sure. Milk will get warm and smell bad. Need to wash out quick."

He took her word for it, and took himself down to the well. After trudging through the snow, however, all he found was the well frozen over, its bucket immobile. Instead, he grabbed a couple of handfuls of snow and did his best to wipe away the milk. Solid water just wasn't as effective as its liquid form.

The house was quiet when he stepped into the kitchen. Rosa and Matteo had gone to spend an evening in the village, and the kitchen fire was banked low. Paolo was nowhere in sight, and the light in the barn told Danny that Adalina was still working with the goats. Hopefully torturing the little devils.

With no other chores to be done for the night, he took himself up to 'his' room and stoked up the fire, tossing on an additional couple of logs. From the fire, he used a splint to light the oil lamp resting on the bedside table, then stripped into the clothes he was using for nightwear, removed the hot coal bed warmer from beneath his blankets, and climbed into the deliciously warm bed. After fluffing up the pillows so they propped him in a sitting position, he reached over to the bedside table and brought out the writing set that Rosa had given to him. Then, he started to write.

 _Dear Barnes,_

 _Today, I kissed Adalina. It was her birthday, and she asked, so I did it. I did it and I felt nothing, even though she_ _'s a beautiful girl, even though she's warm, and kind, and funny, and exactly the kinda girl every guy wants to find. I used to like kissing dames. It used to make me happy. Now, it leaves me feeling empty, and that's your fault. I feel like I ought to hate you, but I can't even do that. You made me feel like girls aren't enough, but if I could see you again, even for a second, I'd forgive you right away._

 _I have no idea what you broke inside me, and I have no idea how you broke it, but you did. When I kissed Adalina, I had to keep my eyes open, because I was so afraid that I_ _'d picture you instead of her. Do you know how wrong that is? Do you know that I'm going to Hell for that? And that I don't even care? That's how completely messed up I am inside. Sometimes, I think I'm going crazy. Sometimes, I wish… no, I can't say that. That's a lie. Never once have I wished that I never met you._

 _I figured something out though, today. You remember watching The Wizard of Oz, when it first came out? Of course you do. Well, that was my life, before I met you. It was black and white. Monochrome. It was plain, and it was dull. Then, I met you, and you were my Technicolor. Suddenly, I had all these different shades and hues, and I didn_ _'t have a clue what to do with them. I guess I squandered them. I don't know. All I do know is, the longer I'm out here, the longer I'm away from you, the more that Technicolor fades. I'm heading back towards Kansas, Dorothy, and as right and normal as it is to be there, I don't wanna be there. I wanna be in Oz, following the yellow brick road wherever it leads._

 _Guess this sounds kinda crazy. I don_ _'t even know if you're still alive. Guess you'll be reading this letter real soon, if you're dead. And if not… well, maybe one day I'll get a chance to tell you my crazy in person. Maybe._

 _Ciao,_

 _Danny_

It had become a nightly ritual. The first letter he'd written, he'd fully intended to send. Then he realised he had no way of posting it. He had no idea where Barnes was, and even if he managed to get it into Allied hands, chances were that Barnes would never believe he was still alive. Not after all these weeks.

Then, he planned to keep the letter, and to take it back in person. He realised how stupid that was when he recalled how close the Nazis had come to finding him in Rosa's house, that first night it had snowed. If the Nazis came again, and they searched the house, and found letters from an American serviceman, written in English, then Rosa and her family would be bundled off to some concentration camp faster than Danny could say _auf wiedersehen._

So, he burned the letter. He let the fire consume it, and the smoke carry it up into the sky, where his dead words could be borne on high winds. And if Barnes was dead, maybe the words would reach him in heaven. Every night since then, he'd written a letter, and watched it burn. It was a cathartic process. To say the things he needed to say but couldn't. The things he couldn't talk about with anybody, not even with the guy who'd so thoroughly broken him in the first place.

"Enjoy tonight's batch of crazy," he muttered. Then, he ripped the note from the pad, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the flames. Just to be safe, he also ripped off the sheet below, and burned that, too. Anyone who'd watched too many _noir_ films in the cinema knew how to take a copy of a note from a pad, and Danny wasn't about to be undone by his own lack of foresight.

"Good night," he said, settling down into the bed. "Sleep well, wherever you are."

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: For more information about the treatment of (some) British pets during the war, please consult your Google for the_ British Pet Massacre. _I believe writers have a duty to shine lights into dark places, so when my WWII research led me to this event, I knew I had to find some way to include it within the story._

 _Sorry for the lateness of the chapter. I was trying all Sunday to upload it, but the website wasn't having it. Tune in next Sunday for more post-kissing fun._


	82. Consequences

We Were Soldiers

 _82\. Consequences_

"How's the wine?" asked Francis.

"It's nice," said Peggy. A waiter was hovering near, just in case the answer was anything negative.

"And the steak? Is it well done enough?"

"Done to perfection," she agreed. It was half-eaten on her plate. She hadn't had much of an appetite, since yesterday.

Francis waved the waiter away, and leant forward over the table to speak without being overheard by the other diners. "Then why does this feel more like a funeral wake than a dinner between two friends?"

"Come on, my company's not _that_ bad, is it?" It was, and she knew it. Even when she was trying to put him out of her mind, Steve Rogers was still interfering with her personal business.

"Not usually. But you look like a woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders."

"Just a lot on my mind."

"Anything I can help with?"

"I wish you could."

She picked up her fork and made a second attempt at the steak. It was rare—in the sense of not being common, thanks to the food rationing system—and a treat that she knew she probably wouldn't have the likes of again for quite some time. Francis must have twisted more than one or two arms to get seats for the _Wishingwell Restaurant_ on such short notice, and she suspected those arms hadn't twisted cheaply.

The other couples dining existed within their own private bubbles. They all had that look about them. That gaze-into-the-eyes expression that she and Fred had once shared. But that had been a lifetime ago. She was no longer that mousy, timid codebreaker who'd forgotten about childhood adventures in favour of becoming a dutiful wife. Now, she held power and influence and had skills most women—most _men_ —could only dream of. And for the first time since accepting the SOE's offer, she wasn't happy.

Francis cleared his throat. "So. Where will your training mission be taking you?"

"Coventry."

"Really?"

"Really."

"You do know that the city centre is still in ruins, don't you?"

Peggy smiled. "In fact, that's one of the reasons I chose it for the training site."

Francis finished his last bite of steak and put down his knife and fork. His brown eyes assessed her frankly. "You love your job, don't you?"

"How can you tell?"

"Well, that's the first time that you've smiled all evening." She opened her mouth to object, but he hurried on before she could get a word out. "Why do I get the feeling that you'd rather be anywhere else but here? I've been asking you out for years, and now that you finally accept, it feels like you're here under duress."

Peggy's heart sank a little further as disappointment with herself swelled. She should've been honest from the start. She never should have agreed to this dinner, certainly not in her present frame of mind. Anger had forced her into this, and though she was still angry, that anger was being doused by regret. If she was honest with herself, she'd only agreed to have dinner with Francis because she wanted to hurt Steve as much as he'd hurt her. But Steve had no idea she was even here, and the only person being hurt was Francis. Perhaps it was finally time to start telling the truth.

She took a deep breath. Stole a quick swig of the very nice wine. Looked him straight in the eyes, no matter how hard it was. "The truth is, I came here to prove something to myself."

"If you came to prove that you're not madly in love with me, I think that's something we've both known for a long time," he said. "So, what is it you wanted to prove?"

"I've been working with someone, recently." No point mentioning names. "And, for a while, I thought there might be something there. A chance at something between us. But now, I'm not so sure. So, I came here to prove to myself that I can still have a good time without him."

"And instead you've spent the whole evening being miserable," he finished.

"I wouldn't exactly say I've been _miserable,_ " she objected.

"Miserable is what I'd call anybody who doesn't eat a steak during rationing." He pushed his plate away, and sighed deeply. "Look, Peg, I'm not one of those people who believes in _the one_. Far as I'm concerned, it's a big sea and there are plenty of fish in it. So maybe you _can_ still have a good time without Mr. Miserable—but if that's true, then I don't think that good time is going to be with me. Besides, I've known you long enough to know that if you're this unhappy about something, then it means a lot to you. I don't recall you being this miserable when you broke things off with Fred, and he was the guy you were willing to spend the rest of your life with. That tells me that whoever this guy is, he must be something really special."

Peggy gave a reluctant nod. "He is that, regardless of whatever else he may be."

"I thought so." The smile that he offered was full of warmth, but his eyes were tinged with sadness. "I'm going to stop asking you out to dinner. Not that I don't enjoy chasing the unattainable, but I'm not going to be that guy who keeps loitering around a lady who has no interest in him, just on the off chance she might change her mind. I'll always be your friend, Peg. So, if you need to talk, about work, or Mr. Miserable, or anything else, you know where to find a sympathetic ear."

Reaching out, she rested her hand atop his, and wished things could have been different. Francis was a good man, and he deserved to find happiness.

"I'm sorry for using you in my attempts to make myself feel better," she said. "I should've been more considerate of your feelings."

"We all make mistakes. That's what makes us human. Now, why don't I settle the bill and drop you back at your hotel? Something tells me you've got an early start for your journey tomorrow."

Peggy allowed herself a deep breath of relief when Francis went off to the cloak room to fetch their coats. On the bright side, she still had a good friend she could count on in a pinch. Unfortunately, she still had no idea what she was going to do about Steve Rogers.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The British public transport systems were always over-crowded, and the train to Coventry was no exception. Most of the team had managed to find seats in the same carriage, but they were spaced out around it. Falsworth and Morita weren't doing too bad for themselves; they had table seats opposite a couple of Home Guard soldiers, and were making the most of their time with a game of poker. Dernier, the only man without a uniform, fit in with the civilians in more ways than one. At his window seat midway down the length of the carriage, he'd lowered the brim of his hat over his eyes and was snoring gently.

Steve had a seat behind a mother and her two little kids. The boy, no older than five or six, kept opening the window above him, which—because their carriage was directly behind the steam engine—pulled a back-draught of smoke and soot in through the open window, blowing it right into Steve's face. Each time, the mother upbraided the child and shut the window, but as soon her focus was her young daughter, the boy opened the window again. Steve was quickly acquiring a raccoon-like mask of black.

Dugan was only slightly better off. He'd drawn the short straw, and was sitting next to a guy who sneezed and coughed like he had the plague, and opposite an elderly couple who kept up a constant stream of conversation about their extended family, and how this war was different than the last war, and how a diet of 'tinned' prunes could help keep one regular. Every time Bucky looked over his shoulder, he caught sight of the expression on Dugan's face, and he couldn't help but smirk.

The man sitting in the window seat beside Bucky was deeply ensconced in his newspaper, which suited Bucky just fine. In his hands he clasped the letter he'd received yesterday, and each time he read it, it cut him a little more inside. It was from his parents, penned in his Mom's hand, describing how they'd believed him dead, and gone through the heartbreaking process of carrying out a funeral service for their beloved son. It went on to describe their joy at receiving news he was alive and well… and then came an impassioned plea, begging him to come home. They didn't understand why he wasn't returning to the States for R&R. They just wanted to see him again. They wanted him home.

He'd already penned a response and delivered it to the SSR's postal point, but he couldn't tell them the truth. He couldn't tell them how ashamed he was of what he'd gone through, and what he'd been willing to do to stop the torture. How could he explain that he couldn't go home until he'd atoned for everything he'd done and said and thought? Until he could look into a mirror and be happy with the man he saw looking back.

They wouldn't understand. They'd think he was crazy. So, he used his friend as an excuse. Told them that he couldn't let Steve keep fighting alone. That Steve needed him right now. He also promised them he'd come home. That they'd see him again. That he'd return after the war, and expect a slice of Mom's apple pie ready and waiting for him.

He hated himself for the lies and the promises he was afraid he couldn't keep. Hated himself for putting them through the heartache of his supposed death. But it was better to hate himself for the lies than to worry his family with the truth. Besides, Steve _did_ need him. Who else was gonna keep pulling bullies off the punk?

And speaking of the devil…

"Hey," said Steve, wiping his face with his sleeve as the train rocked to a stop at some place called _Leighton Buzzard_. He stood beside Bucky's seat and glanced down at the letter in his hands. "Letter from home?"

"Yeah. Mom and Dad's 'glad to hear you're not dead after all' letter. It's pretty grim. I can imagine Mom crying while writing it."

Steve nodded thoughtfully. "Buck, if you wanna go home—"

"Not happenin'. Not until I've finished the job I came here to do. Things got rough, for a while—" Rough like the _Monticello_ in that storm that'd almost killed him "—but I signed up to keep my family safe, and that's what I'm gonna do. Besides, you're my family, too, and you're gonna need me to watch your back, just like old times."

"Okay. If you're sure."

"I'm sure." He nodded back towards the mom and her kids. "Did you decide the seat was more trouble that it was worth?"

"I can still taste soot. I think I swallowed a lungful of the stuff. Anyway, we're not far out from Coventry. British trains might be crowded, but at least the country's small, and the journeys short. Can you imagine crossing America like this?"

He couldn't imagine crossing America like anything. Other than his winter training at Camp McCoy in Wisconsin, he'd never been further away from home than Pennsylvania. His Grandma lived in Scranton, and he and his siblings had spent a couple of weeks there each year for summer break, when they'd been kids.

"We should do that, when we get back," he said. "Coast to coast, just the two of us. Maybe spend a week in California before coming home. I think I've seen more of Europe than I have my own country. New York always seemed big enough, in the past."

"Sure thing. A cross-country road trip sounds like fun; but only if you lay off the clam chowder. You know that stuff upsets your stomach, and I'm not travelling across America with you being gassy."

"But it's soooo delicious." He sighed. "Fine, you big baby. I promise not to eat any clam chowder."

"Good." Steve's eyes darted around the carriage, and Bucky got an inkling of the _real_ reason his friend had taken to standing. "Have you seen Agent Carter anywhere?"

"I think she's in the carriage behind ours," he said. "Why? You gonna try for an apology?"

"Begging _and_ grovelling," Steve confirmed with a nod.

"Good luck. I hope shredding your dignity works."

"Thanks, you're a real pal."

Steve made his way back along the carriage with utterings of 'excuse me' and 'pardon me, ma'am' as he squeezed his way down the aisle. Bucky gave his letter one final glance-over, then tucked it into his pocket and settled back in his seat. Hard as it was to think of his family worrying over his safety, they would just have to wait. At least it wasn't forever. One day, when the war was over, he'd go home, and see them again. Knowing that his family were waiting for him gave him something to look forward to.

When Steve couldn't find Peggy in the next carriage, or the one behind that, he began to wonder whether she'd hopped off unnoticed at one of the previous stops. Or maybe she'd been kidnapped. Who knew how far HYDRA's grasp extended?

His heart began to pound as he moved between the carriages, scanning the faces of all the passengers for a familiar pale complexion. It wasn't until the final carriage that he found her, and when he did, he very nearly tripped over her. She was talking with one of the conductors in the space between the carriages, and he had to slam on the brakes to stop himself running into them both.

"Sorry," he said, his heart returning to a more regular rhythm now that he was sure she hadn't been captured by Nazis. "Agent Carter, could I have a moment of your time? It's about… uh… the mission."

The conductor excused himself, and Peggy turned to face him, her arms folding across the chest of her military jacket. Her knowing gaze pinned him in place like a butterfly in a display case. He'd seen them in the museum, in London, and now he understood how those butterflies felt.

"You're not a very good liar, Captain Rogers," she said.

"I know. I'm a terrible poker player, too." She didn't laugh at his semi-joke. Didn't even smile. Clearly, he had a lot of damage control to do. "I just wanted to tell you how truly sorry I am. When Private… err… Private…"

"Lorraine," she said coldly.

"Yes, when she kissed me, it completely floored me. I had no idea what to do or how to stop it. In hindsight, I should'a pulled away the moment her lips touched mine, but turning down women isn't exactly something I have experience with, and it took a little too long for my brain to kick in."

"And your inexperience is an excuse for your behaviour?"

"Not an excuse, no. Just… a mitigating factor," he offered lamely. "I was caught by surprise and reacted too slow. Much, much too slow."

"Captain, if you're that easily surprised by one transparent, unarmed woman, it doesn't bode well for your upcoming missions."

Before he could respond, a family of four walked through from one carriage into the next, and Steve pushed his body back to make room for them to pass. Peggy's words cut deep, because he knew she was right. He should've seen it coming. He should've stood up for himself. Grown a little back-bone. He was pretty sure that if some guy tried to kiss Peggy without her permission, she would'a punched him for this trouble. Steve couldn't punch a dame no matter the circumstances, but he could'a given a firm 'no.'

"You're right," he said, once the family were out of earshot. "And it won't happen again. Private Lorraine, she didn't care anything about me. She probably doesn't even know my real name, and she certainly didn't care about hearing what I had to say. I don't want you to think that I'm just another soldier, ready and willing to chase the first skirt that comes along. Nothing could be further from the truth."

"You don't owe me an explanation, Captain." There was zero indication that he was making any impression at all. Maybe Stark had been right. Maybe he should've brought at least one bunch of flowers to back him up.

"You're wrong about that. I owe you everything, and not just because you helped me and encouraged me throughout Project Rebirth. You were also the first woman to show any interest in getting to know _me_ —not Captain America, just plain ol' Steve Rogers. And you did it even before Dr. Erskine made me into a whole new man. I still want to go dancing. I want you to teach me the steps. I want to laugh over how clumsy I am, and try my hardest not to step on your toes. I want to do those things with you, and no-one else. Because thinking of doing those things with you, it makes my heart skip a whole lotta beats. I can't imagine doing those things with anybody else."

Peggy's lips pursed, and a little of the annoyance from melted from her face.

"Are you saying you didn't enjoy your rather heated kiss?"

"Not even in the slightest. It was like kissing my grandma." He took a step forward and tried for his most genuine expression. "Just give me a chance to prove myself. I'll do anything you ask."

A half-smile tugged at one corner of her lips, and she stepped towards him. "Anything?"

He swallowed. "Yes."

She took another step. "If I asked you to commit murder, would you?"

"What? No, of course not. What kinda question is that?"

"Well, you said you'd do _anything_. You should be careful about unqualified statements like that, and you should never sacrifice your own morals, not even for something as grand as love. Any trained monkey can jump through hoops to prove itself. If you really _are_ filled with remorse, then prove it by keeping your word." She prodded his chest with her finger, with enough force that old-Steve would've been sporting bruises. "No more 'inexperienced' mistakes. No more women who 'surprise' you. And no more excuses. If you make mistakes, own them. Don't try to wriggle out of them."

"I promise," he said. "No more wriggling. What happened with Private Lorraine was entirely my fault." Well, maybe about ten percent Private Lorraine's fault, but he didn't think Peggy would accept that. "You won't have any more cause to doubt my sincerity."

"Good." She gave a curt nod, and he guessed that, for now at least, he was forgiven. "Now, you should go and round up your team. Ours is the stop after the next, and I don't want to have to wait while your men dally around with their belongings."

"Yes ma'am," he said, issuing a regulation salute.

He hurried back to the main carriage, woke Dernier, and told the rest to gather their gear. Bucky made a beeline for him as he was grabbing his duffel from the overhead, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"So? How'd it go?"

Steve passed him his backpack, and tried to hide his happy grin. "I have a second, last and only chance to prove him not just another skirt-chasing soldier."

Bucky offered him a hearty shoulder-clap. "Glad you didn't strike out. And I resent that comment, by the way. You make the rest of us sound like we're girl-crazy nymphomaniacs. And worse, you make that sound like it's a bad thing!" A lady sitting nearby overheard the comment and gave Bucky a very dirty look, which he completely ignored. "But really, I'm happy she's given you another chance. Just make sure you don't screw this one up. If any dames start looking at you like they might want to plant one on the kisser, walk the other way. Or better yet, send them in my direction."

Steve couldn't help but laugh. It was good to have Bucky acting a little more like his old self again. And who knew, maybe if Steve really could send some dames his way, that might just be enough to remind him that there was more to life than shooting Nazis and drinking Scotch.

There was a familiar face waiting for Steve on the platform at Coventry station; one that he hadn't expected to see again.

"Hey, Mr. Rogers," said Freddie Lopresti. "Or, as I hear it now, _Captain_ Rogers."

"Freddie? The heck are you doing out here?" he asked, shaking the hand the kid offered. Freddie was dressed in his usual smart trousers, blue shirt and brown bomber jacket, and, as always, a camera hung from a strap around his neck.

"Senator Brandt and the top brass have sent me out here to visually chronicle your fight against HYDRA." Freddie patted his camera for emphasis.

Dugan stepped forward, his face a roadmap of confusion. "Come again?"

"Freddie's a photographer," Steve explained. "He's going to take pictures of us."

"Ahh, why didn't ya say?" With a cheesy grin, Dugan straightened both lapels of his jacket, angled his head to the left and pushed his hat into a jaunty tilt. "You're going to want a lot of snaps of me, since I'm the best lookin' guy in the group, but remember to get my from my right side; it's my best."

"Actually, this is a video camera," Freddie explained. He held up the device for everyone to see. Thanks to his work in Hollywood, Steve knew a thing or two about video cameras, and this was about the smallest video camera he'd ever seen. He said as much to Freddie, who merely nodded in agreement. "Experimental technology. Very hush-hush. Part of my job is to field-test new equipment. See?" From his pocket, he pulled out a lanyard that had ' _Official War Correspondent_ _'_ printed on it. Underneath, in black marker, somebody had scrawled, _'and camera guinea-pig.'_

"I'm not sure I like the idea of my every move being filmed," said Morita. He eyed up Freddie and his camera as if they might start shooting at any moment.

"And isn't it something of a security risk?" asked Falsworth. "I don't believe it's a wise idea to telegraph our plans, not even to Captain America's adoring public."

"Oh, this stuff is for top-level eyes only," said Freddie, his chest swelling with pride. "I'm talking Commander-in-Chief, General Marshall, Senator Brandt… and our allies, of course," he added, for the benefit of Falsworth and Dernier. "Freddie Lopresti, by the way, pleasure to meet you." He shook Falsworth's hand before the major could even blink, then aimed a cheeky grin at Dernier. "The camera loves your hat."

"Perhaps we can continue the introductions en route to the training camp," said Agent Carter. Like the men, she was kitted out with a backpack, sleeping roll and duffel bag; and she carried it all herself. Steve kicked himself for missing an opportunity to be a gentleman by offering to help her with her bags. She would've said no, of course, but it was the thought that counted.

"Hey, Agent Carter, can I give you a hand with those bags?" Freddie chirped.

Peggy smiled at him. "Thank you, Freddie, that's very kind of you." She passed over the duffel, and then gestured for the men to follow her. Steve stared after her until Bucky nudged his shoulder and gave him a very pointed 'get moving' glare. Jeez, just when he thought he'd got Peggy figured out, she always managed to surprise him!

A small bus was waiting for them outside the train station, a member of the Home Guard behind the wheel. Dugan and Jones loaded the bags into the luggage compartment built into the side of the bus, and they all climbed aboard to continue their introductions. Freddie got Steve caught up on what he'd been doing since they'd parted ways ( _a fat load of nothing in Sicily_ ) and Steve reciprocated with the tale of how he'd saved three men from being crushed at Pirbright training camp.

The conversation stopped as Jones let out a whistle of surprise, and the rest of the team followed his gaze out the large window in the right side of the bus. The buildings lining the side of the road had been reduced to rubble. Here and there, one stood intact, but the majority were broken husks of stone, their steel bones rusted and twisted by concussive force. In the distance, the ruins of a cathedral stood watch over a city devastated by war.

"Welcome to Coventry," said Peggy.

"Looks like this place got hit pretty hard," Dugan remarked. His blue eyes scanned the debris, as if searching for signs of life.

"Hey, have you gotta do that right now?" Morita growled at Freddie. The kid's camera was rolling, capturing the faces of the men as they looked out at the devastation.

"Just pretend I'm not here."

"I could toss you out the window. Then I wouldn't have to pretend."

"Freddie," Peggy spoke up, "why don't you wait until we start the training exercises before testing the camera?"

"Fine, fine. But you can't stop the journalistic process forever." He switched the camera off and sat cradling it in his arms.

"The reason we have selected Coventry as your training grounds," Peggy explained, "is that it offers a good combination of urban, rural and industrial areas, and will also give those of you who haven't yet fought under such conditions a chance to train in a war-zone, the likes of which you will find in much of Europe. Men of the local Home Guard will stand in as proxies for your foes. Questions?"

"Yeah," said Dugan, pointing out the window to a pile of equipment unceremoniously dumped outside one of the few undamaged buildings. "What's all that?"

"That," said Peggy, "is your new home."

"You're kidding?"

She wasn't kidding. When they got off the bus, they found various poles and tarps and crates and tools, none of which included instruction manuals. Next to the pile, a silver Rolls Royce had been parked up, but Steve didn't think it was part of their supplies. On the bright side, at least it wasn't raining yet.

"We gotta live here?" Morita asked. He pointed his thumb at the intact building behind him. "What about that?"

"That is where I'll be staying for the duration of this training regime," Peggy said. "Along with—"

"Hey kids, glad you could join us for this little field trip." The voice of Howard Stark preceded him out of the building. He was dressed most fashionably in beige pants and a white shirt—like he was expecting to spend the afternoon playing polo, or something. "So, who've we got for this little shindig? Sergeant Moustache, Sergeant Snippy, Corporal Vaguely-Familiar," he said, gesturing at Dugan, Bucky and Jones in turn. Then he clicked his fingers and pointed at Falsworth, "British Guy," then Dernier, "Homeless Guy," and then Morita, "Guy-who-is-as-yet-without-nickname. And of course, Peggy," he added, sliding his arm around Peggy's shoulder with a wide grin. Peggy merely crossed her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes. "Not to mention Captain America and my fluffy camera guinea-pig. I'm sure we'll do great things together." He pulled out a pocket watch and shook his head. "We'll do great things later. Right now I have an appointment with a… ah… dental nurse. Yes. Let's go with that. For a check up on my… uh… fillings. Yes. I'll be back in a couple of hours, have fun assembling that mess."

And with that, he hopped into the car and sped off down the street. In her driest possible tone, Peggy said, "Ladies and Gentlemen: Howard Stark." Then, she clapped her hands, making everybody jump. "Well? Get cracking. You have a lunch to cook before we begin training."

"Cook lunch?" asked Gabe. His brown eyes had widened at the very suggestion.

"Surely you don't expect to take your personal cook out into the field," said Peggy. "For the most part, you'll make do with field rations, but on prolonged missions, it might be necessary to make something a little more nourishing."

"Not to worry, I'm a dab hand in the kitchen," said Falsworth.

"Ah!" A happy grin lit up Dernier's face, and he began patting down his pockets. "I have cheese!"

Morita raised his hand. "I'd like to suggest we ban Dernier from cooking."

"I make some mean scrambled eggs," Steve offered. "Bucky's mom taught me her own family recipe."

"Did she teach _you_ her family recipe too, Princess?" Dugan asked Bucky.

"I was… uh… sick that day."

"Sick," scoffed Steve. "When his mom offered, he said, 'Why do I need to learn how to make scrambled eggs, when I'll always have you to make them for me?'" Mrs. Barnes had thought it a sweet sentiment, at the time. She'd probably expected him to go from college to married, and have a wife to make his scrambled eggs for him.

"Depending on what supplies we have, I could cook us up some gumbo," Jones offered.

"Perhaps you could make a start on your tents and then actually produce some food, instead of just standing around talking about it," suggested Peggy. "There are two tents and eight groundsheets, so you're four men to a tent, and I recommend you put the cooking stove—"

"Wait," said Steve. "Eight? I thought Freddie would be bunking with you and Stark, in the building." He was just a kid, after all, and a civilian at that. It was fine for a bunch of grizzled soldiers like Steve and his friends to go roughing it in the cold of a tent, but Freddie wasn't used to the rigours of military life. He'd just spent four weeks in Sicily, working on his tan!

"If Mr. Lopresti is to accompany you on missions to document your efforts, it only seems right he be part of the team right out of the gate," said Peggy.

What? Freddie? On missions? Behind the front lines? With only his _camera_? It was crazy.

"Agent Carter, could I speak with you in private for a moment?"

"Very well. The rest of you, make a start on those tents.

Peggy led him into the nearby building, which he quickly discovered was a post-office. The front counter was still intact, and looked like it had been used right up until the day the bombs fell. Behind the reception were dozens of pigeon-holes, and an old post cart on wheels was abandoned in the corner. Steve guessed the living area was above the post room. Peggy and Stark probably had real beds, with real eiderdown divans, and real hot water.

"I can't take Freddie into a war zone, Agent Carter. He's just a kid. A civilian! Nobody in their right mind takes an unarmed civilian behind enemy lines."

"Then I suggest you teach him how to shoot a sidearm."

"But—"

"This isn't my idea, Captain, and I have no authority to overrule it." She offered a small shrug, which was no comfort whatsoever. "The brass want your missions documented, and as far as I'm aware, it's a condition of your team's very existence. If it puts your mind at ease, Freddie won't be joining you on _every_ mission. There will undoubtedly be some far too dangerous and high-risk."

"That really doesn't put my mind at ease."

"Perhaps not. But this is the way it has to be." Were all the British so ruthlessly no-nonsense? "I suggest you do everything you can to prepare Mr. Lopresti for the hardships of war, and focus on training your team to be the best they can be."

"I fully intend to do that," he agreed. "But I want to make an official note that I don't agree with this whole 'civilians on the front lines' deal."

"Colonel Phillips brought Howard with us behind enemy lines," she pointed out. "And isn't Mr. Dernier a civilian, too?"

He wisely decided to drop the subject. "I better go help the others with the tents," he said. "And the cooking." Maybe he could impress her with scrambled eggs. "Will you… err… be joining us for lunch?"

"No, I have things to do, and Howard has a stash of quick-cool meals I want to raid while he's gone. You have until Howard returns to get those tents assembled and eat lunch." She tapped her wristwatch and smiled. "Better get moving, Captain; time's ticking."

* * *

 _Author's note: Just a quick heads-up that I've set up a forum (the Constructive Critters Initiative... it's like the Avengers Initiative, only cooler and with more cookies) here on fanfic with the intention of helping writers develop their stories through the application of constructive feedback. If you're a writer looking for a bit of input on an aspect of your writing, or a reader/writer looking to help others, please feel free to stop by. Here is the broken link (because this website hates links), and you can also find us under General forums (or do a forum search, if that function works, I guess): forum/Constructive-Critters-Initiative/210219/_

 _I'll also try to stick a link up in my profile so you can access it from there, if you like._


	83. Growing Pains

We Were Soldiers

 _83\. Growing Pains_

Despite the lack of instructions, Bucky was doin' alright with the tent assembly. They weren't too much different to the tents used by the 107th and other regiments assigned to the SSR during its soirée through France and Italy, except these were smaller and easier to handle. He knew, though, that tents would probably be a luxury, once they left Coventry. By the sounds of it, their team was designed for rapid deployment to achieve fast results. That meant travelling light. No tents, and only as much equipment as they could carry.

By the time Steve returned from his private chat with Agent Carter, Bucky and Jones had almost finished with one of the tents, and Dugan and Falsworth were not far behind with the other.

"Good work," said Steve. "Need a hand?"

"Nah, we got this, thanks."

"In that case, I'll crack open these crates and take a look at what presents we've got."

The crates turned out to be food supplies and blankets, along with necessities such as soap, bandages and painkillers. The presence of bandages did not put Bucky's mind at ease one bit.

With both tents assembled, the bed rolls laid out, and the crates dragged inside to keep them dry in case of rain, they turned their attention to lunch. The small stove they'd been provided had a tripod and container big enough to hold a couple of cans of beans, but there was another problem.

"Where are we supposed to get water from?" asked Morita, sweeping the desolation with his gaze.

"The water mains on this street have been damaged." Agent Carter's voice came drifting on the breeze. When the group of men turned, they spotted her shouting down to them from one of the upstairs windows of the building. "There's an old hand-operated pump by _The Coach-house_ on Main Street, and you'll find a pail inside one of the crates."

"This really is like being back in the field," Dugan huffed. "Alright, gimme the bucket, I'll go get the damn water."

"While he's doing that," said Freddie, "would the rest of you mind sitting in one of the tents and posing heroically?" He put down the film camera and plucked his regular one out of a crate. "I'd like to snap a few shots. You know, a behind-the-scenes kinda thing?"

"How about you just stick to action shots?" Steve suggested. "If you wanna take pictures of what we're doing, go right ahead, but we're not posing. This isn't the USO, and my days of posing for snaps are behind me."

"But Mr. Rogers, think of all the pictures you can show your k—"

"Sorry Freddie, that line's not gonna work on me anymore." Steve gave the guy a playful punch on the shoulder, which almost sent him sprawling into Dernier. "Err, sorry. Sometimes I forget my own strength."

While they waited for Dugan to return, Bucky plopped himself down on his blanket and pulled his copy of _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ from his breast pocket. Maybe he'd get chance to read it during this field trip.

Twenty minutes passed, and Steve's face grew frownier. He wasn't the only one starting to worry.

"Where the devil is Sergeant Dugan?" mused Falsworth. He paced up and down in front of the tent like a mother hen missing one of her chicks. "Surely it can't take this long to bring a bucket of water?"

"Maybe he ran into trouble," Jones suggested.

Morita scoffed loudly. "What? A dozen squirly Brits demanding a tribute of tea before letting him pass?" He stood up and dusted his pants off, then turned to Steve. "Want me to go find him, boss? He probably took a wrong turn at a pile of rubble or something."

"And if he's lost," said Steve, "what's to stop you from ending up the same way?"

With a deep chuckle, Morita tapped the side of his head. "I have the directional instincts of a homing pigeon. You don't get picked to be a Ranger if you can't navigate a couple of streets."

"Alright. But be careful."

Morita left, and Jones sank down onto the empty bed space beside Bucky's. "Ten bucks says Dugan got distracted by a pretty broad. Or that he found someone to arm-wrestle."

Another twenty minutes passed, in which Falsworth practically wore a hole in the ground. By now, even Bucky was worried. He hadn't believed Morita's suggestion that Dugan may have gotten lost. Dugan had fought in Como, and in a bunch of other war-torn towns with the SSR. Coventry was no different.

"Do you think this could be some sort of practical joke?" Falsworth asked. "You Yanks have the oddest sense of humour, at times."

"I don't think so," said Steve. He rolled his shoulders, making them crack in a way that sounded painful. "You up for a rescue mission, Buck?"

"Of course." He pocketed his book again, eager to see the expression on Dugan's face when he saved the guy from whatever trouble he'd gotten himself into.

Freddie hopped to his feet. "Ooh, can I tag along, Mr. Rogers?"

"Absolutely not," said Steve. "Stay here with Major Falsworth."

"What should we tell Agent Carter?" Falsworth asked.

"Don't tell her anything. Hopefully we'll be back before she finds out we've already lost a couple of men."

Bucky joined his friend, and they set off down the street. For the first time since leaving London, Bucky wished for a gun. Their instructions had been to leave all weapons at the SSR, but he would've felt a hell of a lot better with his Colt at his hip. Not that there would be any need for it. Dugan and Morita were probably just… playing a joke. Or something.

An unusual sort of silence pervaded the streets. In the distance, traffic sounds were plentiful, along with construction noises of hammers and hand-saws. Around the bombed streets, however, all sound felt muted, so that even when a blackbird skipped over a pile of rubble and trilled his call, it lacked the usual cheeriness of birdsong. The footsteps of both men felt oddly out of place, and Bucky had to resist the urge to walk more softly and stop himself accidentally kicking loose stones.

Steve broke the silence. "Do you think Stark has any chance with Peggy?"

"None whatsoever. That woman has an uncanny ability to see right through bullshit." He glanced at his friend from the corner of his eye. Steve's shoulders had that _troubled_ set about them. "Why? Do _you_ think he has a chance?"

"I'm not sure. He seems very persistent. And he's rich. Maybe—" he stopped suddenly, head snapping up, eyes roving as he searched the nearby ruined houses. Bucky followed his gaze, every muscle tense.

"What?" he asked.

"I thought I heard something."

"Something like Dugan and Morita snickering like kids over their game of hide and seek?"

Steve shook his head. "More like the sound of something stalking us."

A shiver stole over Bucky's body, and his stomach tied itself in knots. Steve gestured for him to follow, and together they crept forward, towards a pile of rubble suspended over a twisted metal frame. Now that they were closer, Bucky heard it, too; the unmistakable sound of something moving parallel to their own course.

Five seconds later, a large brown rat, fur damp, emerged from the rubble and made a dash for cover. The knot in Bucky's stomach swiftly untied itself, and a quiet laugh escaped his lips.

"Steve Rogers: rat hunter extraordinaire!"

One of those self-conscious blushes he was so good at crept across Steve's cheeks. "I'm still getting used to having super-hearing. Everything sounds louder and bigger than it really is. That rat sounded like something man-sized."

"Well, we're looking for two things man-sized, so at least you're on the right track." Though if a rat sounded man-sized, would men sound elephant-sized?

They found Main Street easily enough, and the _Coach-house_ pub was halfway down it, most of it still intact. Just as Carter had said, there was an old hand-pump around the back, and a dribble of water on the ground beneath it showed that it had recently been used. But of Dugan and Morita, there was no sign.

"This is… odd," said Steve.

"Very odd," Bucky agreed. He nodded at the damaged pub door. "Maybe they went inside to search for any leftover alcohol."

"For forty-five minutes?"

"Maybe they went in and got trapped due to structural collapse?"

"I suppose it's as good a theory as any," said Steve. "Let's check it out."

There was no indication that either man had been inside the pub. The dust coating every surface was undisturbed, and a pair of rats scurried under the bar as Bucky approached. There was no alcohol, either, which was doubly unfortunate, because he got the feeling this was going to be one of _those_ missions.

Outside the pub, they stopped to consider their options.

"New theory," Bucky said. "They thought they'd take another route back to camp and somehow got waylaid."

"Does that sound like something either of them would do?"

Bucky shrugged. He hadn't known Morita very long, and there was no telling what Dugan might do; guy was crazy, after all. "Maybe they heard somebody calling for help and went to investigate?"

"Okay, let's look around. And I swear, if this is a practical joke, they're going to be doing push-ups until they're grey."

"Wanna split up?"

"No, better stick together. I don't wanna risk losing you, too."

They walked up and down the main street a couple of times, senses alert for sounds or sights or smells, _something_ to give a clue about where their missing men had gone. If this had been a true war zone, Bucky would've gathered a heavily-armed search team and worked out a grid pattern, but this was Coventry, not Como, and no German soldier had ever set foot here.

At the end of the street, at its intersection with a smaller road, Steve bent down and poked at a pile of rubble.

"What is it?" Bucky asked.

Standing up, Steve brushed off his hands, planted them on his hips and looked around at the destruction. "Just as I thought. This street was bombed."

"Forget Captain America, they should call you Captain Obvious," Bucky teased. "I thought for a moment there you'd found a footprint or something."

"I thought tracking stuff was what we had Morita for. I never should'a sent him after Dugan alone."

"Let's go back to camp," he suggested. "When we get there, we'll probably find Dugan and Morita took some scenic route back and are waiting for us."

Steve had on his doubtful face, but he didn't object. They took the same route back as they had to get here, both on high alert for the missing men. This was not a good start to their training exercise, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something bad must'a happened to the men. Neither of them were the type to skip out on their responsibilities, nor were they some wet-behind-the-ears Privates who couldn't take care of themselves. Either someone had got the jump on them, or some mishap had befallen them. And with no enemy forces in England, it _had_ to be a mishap. It just had to.

Back at camp, they found Agent Carter standing outside one of the tents, with Falsworth, Dernier and Freddie looking rather sheepish. Carter's expression didn't alter by even a fraction as Bucky and Steve approached. She must be one hell of a poker player.

"Your men are dead, Captain," she said.

Steve damn near tripped over his own feet. "I—what?"

Dugan and Morita, hands tied behind their backs, were frogmarched at gunpoint from the tent, four members of the Home Guard behind them. The British soldiers—three elderly men and a youth who made even Freddie look old—carried rifles, and the way they held them suggested they knew perfectly well how to use them.

"Lesson one," said Carter, "never send your men anywhere alone."

"But the training hasn't even started yet!" Steve spluttered.

"Wrong. The training started the moment you stepped onto the platform. You should always exercise caution, even in places you deem safe. You should never let your guard down, not out there, not here, not even in London. Expect the unexpected. Always." She turned and nodded at the soldiers. "Thank you, men. You can let your 'prisoners' go now."

The men untied the ropes fastened around Dugan and Morita's hands, then departed. A couple of minutes later, Howard Stark pulled up, a grin on his face and a bright red lipstick stain on his collar.

"You kids missed me?" he asked.

"If you're quite finished gallivanting around Coventry," Carter replied, "perhaps we could get to work?"

Bucky's stomach grumbled in disapproval. "What about lunch?"

"Your lunch break is over. If you're hungry, let that be a lesson. Now, we'll give you ten minutes to freshen up, and then we'll expect you lined up in the post office, ready to receive your equipment. Come along, Mr. Stark."

When the two disappeared into the building, Dugan turned to them with a very contrite expression plastered on his face. "I'm sorry, Cap. Without weapons, we didn't stand a chance."

"Don't worry, it's not your fault," said Steve. "I get the feeling Agent Carter's playing by different rules, and we have to figure them out as we go along. "

Bucky silently agreed. He didn't bother voicing his thoughts; that Carter had _always_ played by different rules. That was something Steve would probably figure out, too.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"The first thing you're getting," Peggy said, ten minutes later, "is homework."

"And new toys," said Howard. The childish grin on his face made it clear which he considered the highest priority. At least, until Peggy glared at him. Then he cleared his throat and said, "But homework is of course just as important."

"Captain Rogers." Steve stood to attention as Britain's most beautiful SSR agent stepped up to face him. "As leader of the team, you'll be responsible for planning the missions and ensuring everybody knows what they're supposed to be doing. Though there's not much that can beat real experience, you don't have the luxury of years of on-the-job training. We can, however, give you a bump start."

She turned and picked up a stack of books, some thick and hardback, others bound only by flimsy metal ring spines. When she thrust them into his arms, he was mightily impressed by their weight. The top book was entitled, _The Art of War_.

"In that pile you'll find a half-dozen books and memoires written by men who lived, breathed and dreamed war. As well, you'll find reports from more recent campaigns, detailing Nazi strategies encountered by Allied commanders—mostly British, of course—and all we know about Schmidt and HYDRA from intelligence gathered by Dr. Erskine, myself, and others who managed to infiltrate the organisation. _Know thyself, know thy enemy_. Unfortunately for you, that means learning all you can about Europe's greatest megalomaniac."

"As for your toys," Stark picked up, "I'm still working on most of them, and they'll be ready for your real mission. I have, however, given the ol' vibranium a lick of paint, so she's ready to go right now."

Stark opened one of the small shipping crates and reverentially lifted out the shield that Steve had selected. He couldn't help but smile as the item was placed into his hands. Unlike the shield he'd commandeered from the USO show, which had served its function in a basic way, this shield felt as if it _belonged_ with him. As if it had been made for him. He ran his hands over its smooth surface, and felt at one with it.

"Would you two like some time alone?" Bucky snickered beside him.

Steve glared at his friend, and Peggy leapt in on the offensive.

"Sergeant Barnes, I trust you did actually read the sharp-shooter instruction manual I gave you back in France?"

Bucky straightened up and gave a lop-sided salute. "Yes ma'am, cover to cover."

"Good. Here are three more."

The books she shoved at Bucky were smaller than those she's given to Steve, but they definitely weren't light reading. He could tell his friend wanted to groan at all the pages he'd have to slog through, but he managed to keep that inside.

"Toys!" Howard proclaimed happily, picking up a longer, slimmer storage box. He rubbed his hands together. "Y'know, I feel kinda like Santa Claus at Christmas." He opened the box and pulled out a very long gun, which he clutched to his chest as he aimed an accusatory glare at Steve's best friend. "Before I give this to you, I want to you promise that you won't break it with your heavy leaning. This is a weapon, not a walking stick. Capiche?"

"Jeez, you break one gun and never live it down!" bemoaned Bucky.

"You broke a gun?" Steve asked.

"There were… circumstances. And it wasn't broke, just a bit bent. But sure, Mr. Stark, I promise I won't break it."

"Good. The SSR-02 is my new prototype, and she's like the second child in the family; the child who fulfills the shortcomings of her older sister and is secretly loved the most." He glanced around at the blank stares on the soldiers' faces. "What? I assume that's how families work. I'm an only child." A tumbleweed-moment followed. "I'll just put this back in the crate for now," he said, packing the weapon away. "There'll be time to take her for a spin later."

The homework, and the toys, continued. For Dernier there was a pile of literature on explosive devices currently in use by the Germans and their allies, including information on disarming techniques, as well as a chemistry set full of volatile materials that made Steve glad Dernier wasn't sharing his tent. For Jones, Peggy provided a set of phrasebooks for various European languages to add to his repertoire, as well as more comprehensive French and German language books. The toy he got from Stark was what the inventor referred to as a "spy kit"—items a spy might find handy, cunningly disguised as every-day objects. Steve's favourite was the fake cigarette that doubled as a high-intensity laser. As Stark put it, _shine this bad-boy into somebody_ _'s eyes and you're liquefying their retinas._

Dugan got a prototype shotgun from Stark, one which apparently had improved range and accuracy, but he didn't get any homework; a fact he gloated about later, in the tents. Morita got a compass with a built-in transponder and radio scrambler, which could not only allow for swift location and evacuation, but also disrupt enemy radio comms for a range of five-hundred metres. As homework, he was given a stack of maps, and told to memorise them to the best of his ability. Steve did not envy Morita.

Last but not least was Falsworth, who benefited from Stark's experiments with night-vision technology. He got a night-vision spyglass, a night-vision pair of binoculars, and a new rifle with a night-vision scope attached. His homework was a list of German ciphers he'd need to memorise and become efficient in so that the team could decrypt any intercepted transmissions without having to wait for a message to be relayed to Bletchley Park and back again.

"Now that that's out of the way," said Peggy, "we can get down to your training. Each day, you will have a series of tasks to complete. These tasks are designed to test and enhance your efficiency as a team, as well as to give those of you who don't have very much of it actual combat experience." She checked her wrist-watch, and pursed her lips. "We're running a little behind. In thirty minutes' time, a group of enemy soldiers will be advancing on this location to capture this 'asset.'" Said asset appeared from another crate; a little Union Jack flag with a heavy base for placing on a desk. Peggy put it down on the post-office counter. "Your mission is to defend the flag—which will act as a proxy for a rescued hostage—for a period of one hour, at which point the hypothetical extraction team will arrive and the mission will be deemed a success. Should you fail to protect the asset, the mission will have failed."

"And just how do you expect us to defend that thing with only three guns between us?" asked Dugan, his moustache quivering with indignation. Probably still sore about being 'killed' by three old men and a boy too young for shaving.

"Mister Stark?" Peggy prompted.

"You won't be using your new weapons for any of the training exercises." He opened up the largest crate of all and began handing out some sort of newfangled rifles. "Semi-automatic, each clip holds twenty-four rounds. New clips are available for purchase at the price of one credit per clip."

"Credit?" asked Jones.

"Credits are gained after each successful mission, two credits for each man left alive," said Peggy. Steve suspected she was enjoying this immensely. "You start training today with a grand total of fourteen credits, and I suggest you use them wisely."

"And the point of this credit system?" asked Falsworth.

"To encourage you to make every shot count. Out in the field, you won't have the benefit of your own private quartermaster. Your supply of ammo will be finite, and once you're out, you're out. As well, the credit system is designed to roughly approximate what you may exchange or barter for, with any interested parties or contacts you might meet on assignment. And finally, the credit system is to encourage you all to remain alive, to maximise your gains."

"Uh, no offence, but isn't _not dying_ incentive enough to stay alive?"

"Ordinarily, yes," said Stark. "But these rifles don't fire live rounds; that would be crazy!"

Steve unlocked the clip holder from the rifle handed to him by Dernier and held it up for inspection. "Then, what do they fire?"

"Capsules of paint, in the closest shade I could get to blood. Your enemies will be firing the same, so rest assured that if you're hit, we'll know about it, and if it's a fatal hit, you'll be declared a casualty and removed from the battlefield."

"This is cruel and unusual," said Bucky. Steve could practically see him picturing trying to get paint out of his uniform. "Can't we just shoot at dummies, like in boot camp?"

"Not if you want to be part of this elite team of top soldiers," said Peggy in her driest tone. "Now, suck it up. The enemy will be here in just under twenty-five minutes, and you're wasting time by talking. There are sandbags in the cellar which you can use to simulate foxholes, and I recommend you start hauling them out fast."

"Come on," said Steve, ushering his team out of the room. "We better do as the lady says." Or this training session would end almost as soon as it had begun.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky settled down into his position overlooking the enemy factory. It was like Krausberg all over again, only this time, he was part of the rescue operation—and the 'enemies' patrolling the compound were actually members of the Home Guard, armed with Stark's paint-rifles.

But apart from that, it was just like Krausberg.

Spotlights roved steadily over the bare winter ground in pre-determined search patterns, and Bucky had to focus real hard on staying in the moment and not letting his mind flash back to his arrival at the _stalag_ every time one of the lights swung his way. His heart pounded whenever they flashed near him, even though he knew they couldn't see him beneath his mesh of camouflage, courtesy of the local flora.

"Pull it together, Barnes," he told himself. "We've got this one in the bag."

A dozen hostages—local folks from Coventry who'd volunteered their time—were being held in the compound, and Steve had come up with a good plan to save them. First, Bucky would get a sight on the patrolling perimeter guards, whilst Morita made his way to the base of the communications tower, and Dernier to the factory's external power generator. Then, Morita would disrupt the comms, Bucky would pick off the guards, and Dernier would blow the generator. After that, Steve would use one of Dernier's explosives to get through the door, and he, Dugan and Falsworth would go rushing in to save the hostages while Freddie took heroic action shots to show to the brass. An easy mission.

Or, it would be, if it weren't for the fact that Bucky's damn arm had started shaking over an hour ago. He'd dared to hope that the infrequent shakes he'd experiences in London had stopped. That being out and being active would somehow cure whatever ailed him. But they'd returned, and with a vengeance, first in his right arm, now in both. It was all he could do to keep the rest of him shaking along with his arms.

He now faced an unpleasant dilemma. Even at the peak of health, he had a difficult task. The guards did not patrol the same area, so he'd have to take out the first one, sprint to the location of the second, take him out, and then sprint to the location of the third, all before Dernier could blow the generator, and after Morita had disrupted the comms. Even if he made every shot on the first hit, it would be tight. But with his arms shaking, and his fake sniper rifle shaking too? He wasn't sure he was up to sprinting, much less making every shot on the first attempt. He would either have to suffer in silence and try to do the best he could, or try to get Steve to alter his plans mid-way through implementing them, to give Bucky more time to make his shots.

His mind made up, he plucked his short-range Stark-tech communicator from his jacket pocket, and said, "This is Barnes. I got a sight on my first target, and I need to take it now." If he waited any longer, the man would disappear behind a cooling vent for half a minute, and he'd lose an opportunity.

Steve's voice came back at him over the radio, crackly but resolute. _"Negative. Morita isn't in place yet."_

"If I don't take this shot now, I don't think I'll be able to make it in time to my other targets."

There was silence. And then, _"How come you didn't mention this before, Buck?"_

"Because all I had to go off was a crappy map. The terrain's rougher than it first seemed, and the distance between my targets is a lot wider in reality than on paper." Which wasn't a lie. He'd underestimated how long he'd need to get to his targets—and hadn't anticipated on his malaise returning to haunt him.

" _Hey,"_ said Morita. _"My map wasn't crappy."_

" _We can't go changing the plan now, Bucky,"_ said Steve. _"Stick to it. Morita will let you know when you can take the first shot. I believe in you."_

"But—"

" _You've got your orders."_

 _Stupid orders, Rogers,_ he grumbled to himself. And what did it matter if Steve had faith in him, when Bucky didn't have faith in himself? At that moment, he made a decision. Morita's part in the plan was not dependent on Bucky's. All that mattered was Bucky took out the guards before Dernier blew the generator. He needed more time, so he was going to take it.

He lifted his rifle. Sighted down the scope. The SSR-02 was considerably smoother than the SSR-01. Bucky felt barely any recoil as he pulled the trigger and watched the guard's helmet spattered with red. It took a few seconds for the man to remember to die, and when he did, he promptly dropped with a loud faux death-gurgle.

Bucky was up and running a few seconds before the radio crackled with Steve's demand to know what the hell was happening. He ignored the radio, because he needed all his strength for sprinting across the rubble-strewn ground, and for clinging to his weapon. There was a brief hairy moment when he almost lost his footing and _nearly_ went cartwheeling out of control… but his own reflexes saved him, and he righted himself and continued with his sprint.

He reached his second target and sank down to the cold ground. His camouflage poncho had fallen askew, so he righted it before taking aim and searching for the next guard. When he eventually found the guy, he hissed a curse into the night sky. The man was patrolling a walkway, behind a long section of external venting, which meant everything above his upper shoulders was obscured from view. He couldn't make this one an instant head-shot.

" _Bucky, what the hell is going on?"_ Steve demanded. _"Did you just shoot someone?"_

The radio was a distraction. One he couldn't afford. He turned it off. Focused on his gun. Found the target on the walkway. Aimed for the chest. Squeezed the trigger… and missed.

 _Damn._

The paint bullet exploded on the wall behind the guard, alerting him to the fact he was being shot at. He began to run for the stairs down to the ground, and Bucky quickly took aim before he could lose his target. This time, he aimed slightly ahead of the space the guard was running into, and his bullet hit its mark.

 _Two down, one to go_.

He ran to his final sniping point and toyed with the idea of switching his radio back on. But if he did that, he'd have to endure a lecture from Steve whilst trying to concentrate on shooting. He could turn the radio on after he'd made his shot. It would be easier that way.

At his third point, he dropped to the ground and scanned the roof of the factory down the scope of his rifle. The final guard had the best view of everything that was going on, and Bucky had specifically picked off his targets in places that couldn't be overlooked from the position he knew that final guard would be located.

For a moment, he did nothing but aim at his target and breathe slow and deep. Each deep, slow breathe helped to control his trembling arm muscles, and slowly, the shaking subsided. When he felt he had the best chance, he squeezed the trigger. The guard took a paint bullet right to his head, and dropped down to play dead.

With a sigh of relief, Bucky switched his radio back on, and was immediately assaulted by calls of _what_ _'s happening_ and _should we proceed_?

He pressed the 'transmit' button. "My targets have been eliminated. The plan can proceed."

" _Morita, Dernier, go."_ Steve's voice was terse. _"The rest of you, with me."_

There was nothing else for Bucky to do, so he slowly made his way back down to the mission site. An explosion pierced the night air, accompanied by a brief orange glow. Carter wouldn't let Dernier _actually_ blow more of Coventry up, so Stark has rigged up a pyrotechnic display to simulate a large-scale explosion. A smaller display was a mock-up of Steve blowing the factory door.

The spotlights had long ceases roving by the time Bucky reached the factory, their power source removed in the first explosion. Emergency floodlights running off a backup generator cast pale illumination over the ground. Bucky shouldered his rifle as the first of the hostages came trotting out of the factory, and a moment later he was joined by Morita and Carter, Dernier, Freddie and Stark. Dugan and Falsworth escorted the hostages out, and last came Steve, covering their six. Even beneath the Captain America helmet, Bucky could tell his friend was pissed.

"What the hell was that?" Steve demanded, stopping right in front of Bucky and gripping his weapon tight, as if he'd rather be ringing Bucky's neck.

"I call that a successful mission," Bucky countered.

"You went against my orders and jeopardised the whole thing!"

"I didn't jeopardise anything. You made a mistake when you ordered Morita to kill the comms before I took out the guards. It should've been the other way around."

"You missed your second target," Steve accused. There was an unusual harshness in his familiar blue eyes. "That guard could've radio'd for help and given us all away. That was why you were supposed to wait on Morita."

"But he didn't," Bucky pointed out. "And like I said, I needed more time."

"I told you I had faith in your ability to carry out your part of the plan."

"Well good for you." He didn't even try to keep the venom out of his words. Steve seemed to think this was all a game, but out there, in the field, crippling Bucky by making him wait for Morita could've endangered the whole plan. "Unfortunately, battles don't rely on _faith_ to be won; they need skill and experience. And everything in _my_ experience said that despite my _skill_ , I needed more time to reach my last target."

"And yet despite your _skill_ and _experience_ , Phillips didn't make you the captain, did he?" Steve shot back like a punch to the gut. "If that's what you want, then here, take the shield." He held out the shield towards Bucky; the act of an angry child throwing his toys out of the pram.

Agent Carter stepped between them. "Gentlemen, why don't we discuss this in the mission report tomorrow? It's late, and our kind volunteers have beds to get to.

"Fine," Bucky snapped.

"Fine," agreed Steve.

Bucky ignored his friend as they walked back to their camp in the city centre. This wasn't the first time he'd butted heads with Steve over the training missions, but this was the first time it had escalated into a full-on confrontation. Steve seemed determined to ignore his advice. When Bucky pointed out better and faster ways of doing things, Steve stubbornly went on with his own plan despite the obvious flaws. A couple of days ago, when Bucky had said, _That_ _'s not the way I'd do it,_ Steve had countered with, _Why don_ _'t we give my way a try?_

The mission had been a success, but only because dumb luck had been on their side. Since then, Steve seemed to believe that all his plans would work just because that one had. And all his plans _had_ worked. But he took unnecessary risks. Put men in danger when there were other ways of succeeding. Sure, in Coventry it didn't matter if Steve slipped up with the plan and dumb luck saw them through, but out there, on and behind the front lines, Bucky knew better than anyone that Lady Luck was capricious and fickle, and likely to abandon them in their hour of need.

He just didn't understand why Steve was so fixated on doing things _his_ way. Back in Europe, Phillips had given Bucky a fairly free rein to accomplish his missions. He and Wells had led teams to take out HYDRA, and they'd done it without this crazy power struggle Steve seemed bent on undertaking. Sure, they made plans, but they also knew that the heat of the moment often required room for improvisation.

So why couldn't Steve see that? It wasn't as if he was stupid; he was a smart guy. If he trusted Bucky to get the job done, why didn't he also trust Bucky's opinion of how to do things better, and safer? And why couldn't he understand that all Bucky was trying to do was stop him losing men and blaming himself for their loss?

Well, he was done trying to help his friends. If Steve wanted suggestions, he could ask for them. Bucky would keep his opinions to himself in future. Maybe once Steve learned the hard way, he would finally understand that it wasn't weakness to ask for advice.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: So, the website has been doing that thing again, where it doesn't notify you guys of my chapter updates, and doesn't notify me of your reviews. Hopefully that's fixed by now, and we're back to business as usual. Apologies to anybody whose review I missed responding to._

 _Thank you, Anonymous reviewer, for your comment about shell shock. The phrase isn_ _'t mentioned at all in the chapter you reviewed, so I'm not exactly sure which specific instances of it you're referring to. If it's Bucky/Steve using the phrase, then whilst it's true that the term 'shell shock' was replaced by various militaries during WWII, both of Our Heroes grew up listening to Bucky's dad and others of the previous generation talk about their experiences of war, including shell shock. It's therefore been ingrained into their consciousness for pretty much all of their lives, and as such is internally consistent for the characters and will continue to be used by them (in a similar way to how I tape movies and listen to books on tape, even though compact cassettes and VHS are pretty much extinct now.)_


	84. Sent to Coventry

We Were Soldiers

 _84\. Sent to Coventry_

Steve rolled over in his bed and looked at the sleeping face of Bucky. For a split second, he was overcome with guilt and regret. For all the time he'd been outta Krausberg, Bucky still looked like he'd just been pulled off Zola's table. His pallor was pale, his shoulders carried a perpetual slump, and there was a look that flared occasionally in his eyes, as if he knew he was being hunted.

The guilt and regret swiftly faded. For the past two days, Bucky had been a nightmare to live with, and it was the little things that hurt most. The way he'd neglect to ask Steve by name if he wanted his canteen filled, after asking everybody else on the team one by one during a regular water run. It was always, _"Dugan, you want your canteen filled? Hey Falsworth, I'm heading to the tap, you want a refresh? Dernier, what's the French for 'water' and do you want some? Jones, toss me your canteen and I'll fill her up. You too, Morita. Freddie, you want a top-up? Okay, anybody else want their canteen filled while I'm out there?"_ or something to that effect.

At other times, he'd 'forget' Steve hadn't washed his food tray, and 'accidentally' tip away the soapy water they'd heated over the stove, so that Steve had to walk out to the tap and wash his tray with cold. Most hurtful was the way Bucky would tell stories to the others, and refer to Steve as 'this guy I used to know.' _"When we were seventeen, me and this guy I used to know went to Coney Island..."_ _"Senior Prom was great; I set this guy I used to know up with my sister, and we had lots of fun even though he couldn't dance to save his life." "Oh yeah, I remember watching The Wizard of Oz; me and this guy I used to know went and saw it at the cinema."_

Even that Steve could've lived with, but when Bucky started sabotaging the missions just to prove Steve wrong, he went too far. On the first day after their fight, he messed up the evening mission by failing to climb to his perch in time to take out his target. The morning after, he missed every single shot. When Steve questioned him, he shrugged it off with a _"somethings, these things happen"_ and a _"sometimes, not everything goes the way you plan"_ and Steve was quickly reaching the limit of his patience. It was Bucky's nonchalant attitude, as much as anything, that threatened to push his anger over the edge.

Instead of waiting for the rest of the tent to wake, he dressed in silence and went for an early-morning jog. Carter had warned them about going anywhere alone and unarmed, but today he was in the mood to take risks. Besides, he didn't think Carter would have enlisted the Home Guard to lie in ambush at such an early hour, and even if she had, he knew he could take whatever they might throw—or shoot—at him.

Running felt good. Helped to work off some of his anger and clear his head. Before he knew it, he'd jogged into territory more populated, where local city-folk were going about their daily routines.

"Top of the morning to you, Captain Rogers!" somebody called.

Steve stopped and looked around for the source of the greeting. It was an older man wearing a labourer's outfit; probably one of the local steelworkers responsible for producing some of the many aircraft involved in the war.

"Good morning," Steve replied. "And please don't take this the wrong way, but how do you know who I am?"

"Ahh, I was one of your hostages from a couple of nights ago." The man offered a friendly wink. "The way you and your lads stormed that factory, it bodes well for all the men, women and children being kept prisoner by the Nazis."

"Oh." If he'd been one of the factory hostages, he'd probably seen and heard the argument with Bucky. And that did _not_ bode well for inspiring confidence in the civilian population. "You were there for the… um…"

"Debate about tactics between you and your scowling fella? Aye. The two of you must be very good friends."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because only the best of friends can fight like the worst of enemies." He nodded, gaze introspective. "Aye, our enemies can injure us, but only our friends have the power to hurt us. I hope you two get your disagreement sorted out… for the good of everyone."

"So do I," Steve admitted. He just didn't know how to go about it. He and Bucky had never truly fallen out before, not like this. They'd had their disagreements in the past, but they'd always been able to laugh them off and go back to the way things were before. This time… Steve wasn't sure if there was any going back. There was no denying it: Bucky had changed. Steve's greatest fear had been realised. He looked at Bucky, and barely saw any trace of the man he'd known before. He didn't know whether war had done that, or whether it was the result of whatever he'd experienced in Krausberg, but Bucky was a different man. A harsher man. A less compromising man.

"See you tomorrow," the man said with a wink and a grin.

"Why? What's Agent Carter got planned for tomorrow?"

The civilian merely tipped his cap and strolled down the street as if he had not a care in the world. Right then, Steve envied him.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Steve was gone when Bucky went for the water run the next morning, but he took his canteen anyway, because even though his friend was behaving like a child, Bucky was determined to take the high road and not stoop to Rogers-levels of jerkness. It was as if Steve purposely went out of his way to antagonise Bucky. At the end of every briefing, he asked, _"Anybody got any problems with this plan?"_ And then, just for emphasis, _"Sergeant Barnes, do_ you _have any problems with the plan?_ _"_ If Steve really was as all-knowing as he pretended to be, he'd already know that you couldn't predict every eventuality, and sometimes plans had to be changed during their execution.

But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst was when Steve constantly and purposely blanked him, as if Bucky was just some annoyance to be ignored. When Bucky went to refill all the canteens, Steve never said thanks. When Bucky offered to spend the evening hauling the sandbags back into place around the tents, Steve barely even glanced at him. When Bucky stripped down and cleaned all the paint rifles as a peace offering, Steve didn't even seem to notice.

There were no two ways about it: becoming some sort of chemically enhanced super-soldier had changed Steve. The awkward, self-conscious kid who'd been Bucky's best friend for almost twenty years was gone, replaced by Mr. Superiority. And the sad thing was, nobody else could see the change. Captain America was all the others had ever known, so they accepted him at face value, never truly understanding that Steve wasn't the type of guy to expect others to jump at his every command.

As he refilled the canteens, he tried to figure a way out of this mess he'd… if not created, at least contributed to. Why couldn't Steve just accept that in some matters, Bucky knew best? Why did he constantly have to shoot his ideas down, and go his own way? Sure, Bucky could apologise, but what would be the point? He was doing what he thought was best. Any apology would sound insincere because he didn't believe he'd done anything wrong. Not that Steve had done anything wrong… he was just being pig-headed about the whole thing.

When he got back to camp, he was met with silence. Immediately, he put down the canteens he'd filled and lifted his paint rifle into a usable position. Ever since Dugan and Morita had been jumped, nobody had gone anywhere alone and unarmed, and Bucky _certainly_ didn't want to hear Captain America's lecture about safety. The paint rifle wasn't a true weapon, but anybody jumping him wouldn't be a true enemy. All Carter cared about was hits, and paint did that just as well as real bullets.

"Gabe?" Bucky called, inching towards the tents. _Somebody_ should've been up and about by now. "Dugan? Monty—I mean, Falsworth?"

Silence reigned… until Agent Carter stepped out of his tent and gave him a look that said _if you shoot me with that, I_ _'m going to kick you in a place that will impair your ability to father children._ He promptly lowered his weapon.

"Where is everyone?" he asked.

"Captain Rogers is taking his usual morning run," she replied. "I sent the rest of the team out with Howard to get pastries for breakfast. I thought they deserved a treat, after their exemplary performance so far."

The fact that he wasn't invited to the treat was not lost on Bucky, but instead of rising to the bait, he merely returned to the canteens and deposited them outside their respective tents. "Oh."

"I thought we might talk for a moment," she said.

"Sure. I got time to kill."

"Then I'm not interrupting your sulking, am I?"

"I'm not sulking," he protested. Besides, even if he was sulking, it was none of her business.

"Good. Sulking is very childish. I'm glad you're not giving into it." Agent Carter gestured to one of the sandbag piles, inviting him to sit. He declined. "You know, you were way out of line, earlier."

"Tell that to Captain Big-head," he scoffed.

"I intend to. You're both as stubborn as each other." She pursed her lips as she considered her next words. "What we're doing here is training. This is the place where you're allowed to make mistakes so that there's less chance of them being made _out there_." Carter cast her arms wide, indicating the rest of the world. "When children first learn to walk, they stumble and trip and fall down a lot. But practice and perseverance pays off. Captain Rogers hasn't done this before. You need to give him time to settle in to his role. To get used to making plans and giving commands."

"I'm not the kinda guy who can just stay silent when somebody makes the _wrong_ plans."

"Yes." She couldn't entirely suppress the sardonic tone in her voice. "I'd noticed. But you're going to have to learn to become a team player—"

"A team player?!" He plonked himself down on the sandbag beside her, a scowl creeping across his face. "I _am_ a team player. Or have you forgotten the first six months of the 107th's duty with the SSR? The countless missions Phillips sent us on? The dangerous missions? The deadly missions? Hell, you even told me that we were picked for those missions all the time because we were good at succeeding. When Wells and I were sent out on the suicide runs, we got the job done every time. We made plans together, executed them together, and the few times we argued, we didn't let it interfere with the mission. Maybe the problem isn't me. Maybe it's Steve. You ever consider that?"

She ran her gaze over him, her deep brown eyes weighing him up. He resisted the urge to squirm beneath her assessment, to sit a little taller and straighter.

"Sergeant Barnes, why do you think you and Sergeant Wells worked so well together?"

Her question threw him off balance. If he'd been sat on something less sturdy than sandbags, he might even have fallen off. His feathers ruffled, he ran a hand through his hair.

"I dunno. I guess Wells was there from the start. He knew what it was all about. The stakes, the difficulties, the pain of loss… and unlike a certain comic-book-hero-cum-movie-and-radio-star, he didn't let his ego get in the way of the mission. He listened. He trusted me, and trusted my judgement."

"Would you say it's fair to state that you and Sergeant Wells were both opposites, and equals?"

"Well, I guess that's fair," he grudgingly admitted. He didn't like giving Carter an inch: there was no telling what she'd do with it. Probably take it for a mile.

"He was a sergeant. A good sergeant. Like you."

"Yeah, what's your point?"

"That the working relationship you had with Sergeant Wells functioned mainly because you saw each other as equals. But you and Captain Rogers are not equal. You've never been equal. Isn't that right?"

Her accusation hit him like a dagger of ice to the gut, her narrow-eyed gaze boring right into his skull. Before Bucky could even open his mouth to ask for clarification, Agent Carter offered it.

"When you were captured by HYDRA, Steve told me how you were always there for him. Always looking out for him. You were his strength and his anchor."

Steve had said that? To a dame? Guilt began to gnaw at the edges of his mind.

"And now, he has strength of his own. He doesn't need you to prop him up and take a few blows for him. He's stronger and faster than you, and he outranks you. Whilst you're on missions, he doesn't need you to be his friend; he needs you to be his sergeant. To follow your orders to the best of your abilities and back him up in front of the troops. He's not your equal. Captains and sergeants _can_ _'t_ be equals in the eyes of the chain of command. That's just a fact of the military. And as efficient as you and Sergeant Wells were together, he's gone. You can't just fill that void with Steve. You can't treat all commands like the one you've experienced before. You were given unprecedented freedom to carry out your orders, and now you have to adapt to a new way of doing things."

"Don't you think I know that? I'm trying! It's just…"

"Just what?" she prompted.

"I don't want Steve to go through the same things I did. The guilt over losing men. The worry over failed missions. He doesn't need to experience that. Not if I can help him."

"It is your experiences of war, including the losses, which has helped to forge you into a good sergeant and an excellent soldier. If you deny your friend those experiences, you deny him the chance to grow, both as a captain, and a person. I know you want to protect him from being hurt, but there comes a point where you have to let him make his mistakes and own them."

He hated that everything she said made sense. In the past, he'd always looked out for Steve. His best friend was a gentle soul, and Bucky wasn't sure he'd be able to handle the loss of soldiers under his command. If he could save Steve from making the mistakes he himself had made, wasn't it his duty to do that?

"Look," Carter said, driving her point home, "I know it's not easy—for either of you. Even when you were best friends, you stepped in to the role of protector. Now, the friend who needed your protection is perfectly capable of protecting himself. What he needs from you now is support. I'm not saying you shouldn't give your opinion; it would be negligent of you not to, especially if you thought the plan wasn't fully sound. But once he's made up his mind and given his orders, don't try to undermine them. And if it turns out he's made a mistake, be there to help him to understand and move past it."

"What if he's changed too much?" he asked, putting weight to his greatest fear. That this serum his friend had been given had made him something _other than_ Steve.

"Then instead of mourning the child he was, get to know the man he's become. You might find you have a lot in common."

"I guess you're right. I suppose I've been a little… over-protective," he admitted. His past was littered with people he hadn't been able to protect, from his dog Bingo, who'd been hit by a car when Bucky was fifteen years old, to Wells and the others who'd gone on the last supply drop and never come back. At least Steve was still here, and every instinct Bucky possessed was screaming at him to protect the few friends he had left. He would never forgive himself, if something happened to Steve.

"Personally I would call it 'over-bearing,'" said Carter. "But to each his own."

She left him with that food for thought and returned to the post-office building she called home. As much as Bucky wanted to make things right with Steve, he wasn't sure of his chances. And even if he could find a way to apologise to his friend, would Steve even accept an apology, or had Bucky finally ruined their friendship for good?

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Steve followed the pebble he kicked along the ground, uncaring of where it took him, barely even paying attention to the stone's erratic bounces. In his mind, he replayed the mission of two nights ago over and over again. Each time, he heard Bucky's voice over the radio. _I got a sight on my first target, and I need to take it now._ Each time, Steve gave the same reply. Wait. Don't rush it. Don't jeopardise the mission. It had been the right call. The mission had been a success. But Bucky acted like it'd been a huge failure. That the whole war had been lost because of it.

A second pair of footsteps approached and fell into line with him. His mouth went dry when he glanced aside and saw Agent Carter beside him. She wore a perfume that made his head giddy, and even though she didn't look at him, his heart skipped a beat.

For a long moment, they walked in silence, and Steve dared to hope that she'd come regarding personal matters. That she wanted to talk to him about that dance he'd promised her.

"You were out of line back there," she said at last.

Steve stiffened. Kicked the stone a little too hard. It went skipping along the ground and disappeared into a pile of rubble a hundred yards down the road.

"I'm not sure I follow. The mission was a success."

"I'm not talking about the mission." A thoughtful expression crossed her face. "Well, not entirely. I'm talking about the things you said to Sergeant Barnes, after the mission was over."

"I never was very good at keeping my mouth shut," he admitted. In truth, he'd been feeling guilty about some of the things he'd said. Anger kept the guilt from rising up and consuming him. "But Bucky was out of line, too. He shouldn't question my orders like that, especially since the mission went smoothly."

"From where you're standing, it went smoothly," she corrected. "But yours wasn't the only viewpoint. From Sergeant Barnes' perspective, taking his first shot as soon as he was ready would've enabled him to move on to his next point and be set up in plenty of time. It was a calculated risk borne of experience. How do you expect the men to trust your judgement, if you show no trust in theirs?"

"It's not that I don't trust Bucky. It's just…"

"Yes?" she prompted with eternal patience.

"He doesn't know what it's like. Being Captain America. Having all this responsibility. Having the eyes of the world watching me. So many hopes and expectations… it's exhausting."

"You're right, he _doesn_ _'t_ know what that's like. But he _does_ know what war is like. He knows how to plan missions, and how to carry them out. He's not the only member of your team who found some of your commands frustrating, but he's the only one who spoke out. The men understand that you need time to find your feet, but for Sergeant Barnes, he still sees you as a friend."

"He still sees me as the scrawny guy who needs protecting."

"Oh, I'm not so sure about that," she said blithely. "I think he just wants to protect you from failure. He saw his way as the best way, and couldn't understand why you wouldn't listen. In his mind, it became personal. The two of you won't find it easy to work together. Sergeant Barnes is used to having the freedom to carry out missions in his own way. You're not used to giving orders and having them followed through. And you still share a bond of friendship that, right now, is standing in your way. I'm not saying you can't be friends, just that first and foremost, you need to be soldiers."

"I guess you're right. When I imagined getting out here, finding Bucky, serving together, I never dreamed I'd be the one giving the orders. I figured we'd be side by side, just like old times. Me leading, Bucky following… the idea feels strange."

"Give yourself some time. You'll get used to it."

He nodded. Unfortunately, time was the one thing he didn't have. In less than two weeks, his team had to be fighting-fit and ready to take on HYDRA. If they couldn't prove themselves on the training field, they'd never be given the green light for real missions, and everything Steve had been through would've been for naught.

Besides, this wasn't just a case of two old friends butting heads. Bucky was different. He wasn't the same happy, carefree guy he'd been back in the States. The old Bucky would've tried to make things right two days ago. The new one… Steve wasn't sure he knew much about the new Bucky at all.

"Bucky's dad told me war changes people," he offered to Peggy.

"Well, he was partially right. _Life_ changes people. You won't be the same person tomorrow that you are today, and the same could be said if you were still at home, and had never heard of Project Rebirth or the SSR. War simply has a way of making the changes more… drastic." She sound as if she spoke from experience, but he didn't wanna pry. Not yet. "I'm sure Sergeant Barnes has changed from the man you used to know, but that just means you have the privilege of getting to know your friend all over again."

"I guess." Maybe he'd been holding onto the idea of Bucky remaining unchanged for too long. Maybe it was time to put that dream aside and start facing reality.

"I'm glad you agree." She stopped, and waited for him to do the same. "And by the way, if you have an issue with one of your team, you shouldn't address it with a hot head. And certainly not in a public forum. You may have felt justified in your actions, but all you accomplished was to make the other men afraid to speak their minds. That's all well and good in a traditional army outfit, but your team is not expected or _desired_ to be that."

"I guess I really do have a lot to learn about commanding. Does it ever get any easier?"

"With experience, yes. As with anything, it will be more challenging, in the beginning. But you're very lucky. You have a team of experienced soldiers. Use them. Listen to them. And if they tell you there are better ways, believe them. Don't be so quick to dismiss their ideas because it doesn't fit in with your plans. I know you probably see Sergeant Barnes as an oversized irreverent child—God knows, I certainly did, when I first met him—but he's actually very good at what he does. Just, don't tell him I said that."

For the first time in two days, Steve smiled. "I promise I'll keep your praise secret."

"I'm glad I can count on your discretion." She reached out to squeeze his shoulder, and his heart almost leapt right out of his chest. "Don't be afraid of making mistakes. Remember what Dr. Erskine told you; that you should remain a good man. Not a good soldier."

"Isn't it possible to do both?" He so desperately wanted to remain true to Dr. Erskine's memory… yet he also wanted to be a soldier that his father could be proud of.

"Most of the time, it probably is. But should there ever come a time when you have to make a choice between the two… well, I hope you'll listen to your heart. Never forget that Steve Rogers is who you are. Perhaps in a year's time, the war will be over, and an accord will be reached to prevent any future wars. There may be no more need for soldiers. At that time, you still need to be Steve Rogers."

"You're right. Thanks, Agent Carter."

She left him with the excuse of needing to prepare for the next training exercise. Their talk had helped put things into perspective. He shouldn't have come out here looking to find the Bucky Barnes of a year ago; too much had happened, to both of them, for either of them to have been the men they were before all this started. But it wasn't too late to save their friendship. If Bucky could find it in his heart to forgive Steve, then Steve could do no less.

He just hoped he could convince Bucky he was sincere in wanting to mend fences and start afresh.


	85. The Unsinkable Ship

We Were Soldiers

 _85\. The Unsinkable Ship_

It was hard to find time to get Steve alone. After Stark and the others came back from breakfast, and Steve from his morning run, Carter shipped them all out to the countryside, so they could engage, quite literally, in field exercises.

Rural England was very different to anything Bucky had experienced so far. Here, it was all open fields and hedgerows and gently rolling meadows. When Gabe pointed out that it wasn't much like France or Italy, she had an answer for that, too.

"Should you find yourselves undertaking missions in Holland, Belgium, Denmark, or the northern areas of France, you'll find the landscape and climate not too dissimilar to Coventry's countryside. Remember, gentlemen, that the Alpine and Mediterranean landscapes you've fought in so far have been two extremes, and not all of Europe is mountains and dry hills."

 _Field exercises_ involved infiltrating a country manor which had been occupied by Nazi forces—the Nazis portrayed, again, by members of the Home Guard. It reminded Bucky of all the HYDRA bunkers he and Wells had captured. Not for the first time, he wished his friend was still alive. He suspected Wells would understand where his frustration about Steve's orders was coming from… and that with Wells there, perhaps he would've felt a little less alone.

After their field exercises, they had a lunch of cold meat, hard bread and ration bars, then had an afternoon of lessons from Falsworth in how to correctly land without breaking their legs during a parachute jump. With most of Europe largely inaccessible, Agent Carter assured them they'd be doing a lot of parachuting. Towards the end of the afternoon, Falsworth brought out a used parachute and showed them how to correctly pack it into its bag, whilst assuring them that they would never be expected to pack their own chutes before a jump.

"What the Hell is this made of?" asked Dugan, as he rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger. "It feels strange."

"Silk," said Falsworth.

"Come again?" Morita spoke up.

"Silk."

Dugan's face was such a picture of disgust that Bucky elbowed Freddie to take a snap of it. "You expect us to jump out of airplanes with only pieces of _silk_ strapped to our backs? As in, the stuff my mom's stockings are made out of?"

"It's quite safe," Falsworth assured him. Dugan didn't look convinced, and Bucky certainly wasn't. In fact, nobody but Falsworth looked thrilled by the idea. "Silk is very strong."

"Stockings!"

"I've heard that some of the American parachutes are starting to be made out of some thing called 'nylon', but we only have silk." For some reason, Falsworth didn't seem particularly unhappy about that. He was obviously crazy.

"And what are we supposed to do with the parachutes once we've landed?" asked Gabe. "They're kinda big, and something tells me we won't always have time to fold them up and hide them somewhere convenient."

"For the most part," said Carter, "once they've been used, they can't be used again. So, cut them up for bandages. Or in cold or wet weather, use them to augment your sleeping bags and blankets. You won't be expected to recover the chutes, so do with them whatever is best for the situation."

"Nous pourrions en faire des bas," said Dernier. "Alors Dugan n'aurait pas à emprunter les bas de sa mère si souvent!"

Gabe laughed, but the frown-lines on Dugan's forehead merely deepened.

"Alright Frenchie, now I _know_ that one was about my mom."

"He said you could make them into stockings for dames," Gabe translated, though Bucky wasn't convinced that was what Dernier had actually said.

It wasn't until they got back to camp that Bucky found a moment alone with Steve, and it wasn't entirely of his own doing. As usual, he started doing the rounds with the canteens, and just as he was about to ask Steve if he wanted a refill, Steve said, "I'll come with you. Give you a hand."

They walked in an uncomfortable silence until they were out of sight and sound of the tents, and Bucky jumped in right away.

"I'm sorry for disobeying your orders. And I'm even sorrier for my behaviour since then. I just want you to know that I didn't disobey because I don't trust your judgement, but because when it came down to it, I realised I couldn't do what you were asking me to do. I needed more time to reach my targets and make my shots. It was a risk, yes, but if I hadn't taken it, I guarantee you the mission would've failed because I wouldn't have been able to play my part."

"And I'm sorry for not trusting your judgement more. I should've remembered that you always did have a good head for tactics, even when we were just kids defending the Alamo." Eleven year old Steve smiled at Bucky from across the years, and twelve year old Bucky grinned back. "Those were good times. I remember how you used to strut up and down with your wooden sword, giving the orders, makin' speeches."

"They were _different_ times," Bucky corrected. "Now it's your turn to strut up and down, to give the orders and the speeches. And I know you'll do a bang-up job. What matters is that we're still fighting together, side by side."

"You're right. And if you need to change orders part-way through a mission, I trust you to do what is best. That goes for everyone on the team. I can't be everywhere at once, and I want my men to be able to think for themselves."

Something still wasn't right. Bucky could feel it churning around inside his gut like an undercooked steak. Even though he and Steve had made up, there was something still between them, some invisible boundary that made the silence they walked in a little less comfortable than it once would've been. In many ways, Steve still felt like a stranger, and it wasn't until they'd reached the faucet and filled up the canteens that Bucky realised what the problem was.

The problem wasn't Steve; it was Bucky. If Steve still felt like a stranger, it was because Bucky had made him that. He'd been so caught up in his own problems that he'd shut himself down. _Get to know the man Steve is_ , Agent Carter had suggested, but for the past few weeks, he'd done exactly the opposite. Pulled himself away. Kept everything quiet. He'd hadn't _wanted_ to get to know Steve all over again, because it was easier not to. Easier not to get close to people and lose them, as he had with all the friends he'd made in the 107th.

It was time to fix that.

"So… how've you been?" he asked. "I mean _really_ been."

A puzzled frown crept across Steve's face. "You mean since we last spoke, all of five minutes ago?"

Bucky shook his head. "I mean with _everything_. You've told me all about Project Rebirth, and the stuff you did during the USO, but I haven't exactly been Mr. Share Information. I don't think I ever once asked how you felt about it all. I've been so caught up in my own stuff, that I never even considered that maybe you find this all as strange and overwhelming as I do."

"You don't need to apologise for needing time and space," Steve assured him. "You've been through a lot. Heck, you've been through more than me, and I am _literally_ a new man."

"Still, I want to know how you're handling everything." Listening to his friend was the _least_ he could do after weeks of self-pity.

"I don't even know where to start." Steve ran a hand through his hair. "On the one hand, it's great being fit and healthy. I can breathe without wheezing. I can run a mile without having an asthma attack. And you know how my heart used to do that fluttery thing?" Bucky nodded. He used to joke that if Steve ever met the girl of his dreams, his heart would flutter right out of his chest. "Well, it doesn't do that anymore."

"Except around Agent Carter," Bucky chipped in. Steve's ears went pink, but he didn't deny it.

"And on the other hand, it's hard getting used to how people treat me. I mean, sometimes, I forget that I'm different. I'll see dames giving me the eye, or guys backing off and giving me space, and I'll wonder what's up with them. Then I remember that I don't look like sickly Steve Rogers anymore."

"You ever look in the mirror and see a stranger looking back?"

Steve laughed heartily. "Every morning." Something else they shared in common. Only, Steve saw a bigger and better man looking back at him; Bucky saw someone broken and tired. "The hardest thing, though, is trying to live up to the expectations of others. I wish, now, that I hadn't done the USO stuff. The shows, the comics, the radio programme—"

"The movies."

"—which, by the way, I forbid you from ever watching. Those things, they _made_ Captain America, and they made him larger than life. I'm not talking figuratively, either. One of the comics has him… me… whatever… defeating an oversized Hitler then enjoying a victory dance with the Statue of Liberty. Everybody has high expectations of me… and I'm worried I may fall off that pedestal they've put me on."

"Don't worry about it," Bucky told him. "I know it's hard to just not worry about something like that, but one man can't win the war by himself, and it's unfair of them to expect it. I'm pretty sure that despite your upgrades, you're still human. You _are_ still human, right?"

Steve punched his shoulder—gently—in response. "Of course I'm still human, doofus! Dr. Erskine told me that the serum would just push me to the very edge of human limits. To the maximum extent of physical evolution, whatever that means."

"It means you're still one of us. And I'm pretty sure that if they thought one super-man could win the war, they wouldn't have planned to make an army of them. Right?"

"I never thought of it like that."

"That's because I'm the brains of the outfit," Bucky told him, with as much smug as he could muster. "And by the way, the next time I tell you not to do anything stupid—"

Steve rolled his eyes. "I know, know; don't."

"No, do. Life's too short to always do the smart thing. And sometimes, the stupid things pay off." Like most of the plans he and Wells had come up with to capture the HYDRA comms bunkers in France. He saw, now, that doing the smart thing was okay when you were back home and safe, but out here, in a war zone, sometimes smart wasn't always best.

Steve goggled at him. "Who are you, and what've you done with Bucky?"

"I'm still me. Just a little richer in experience." _And poorer in friends._ But maybe that's the way things worked. Maybe you couldn't gain in one place without losing in another. Still, Steve seemed to have avoided that fate…

"Well, Mr. Experience, what say we get these canteens back to camp and put our feet up for a while? Dugan's cooking tonight, and I'm looking forward to seeing what he comes up with."

Putting his last thoughts aside, Bucky made a mock flourish of an imaginary cape and stepped aside. "Lead the way, Captain America."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

 _Eight days ago_ _…_

Peggy stepped into Colonel Phillips' office and saluted. He glanced up at her face, then gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

"Take a seat, Agent Carter."

She settled herself, and waited for Phillips to finish reading whatever report he had in his hands. At last, he closed the file, placed it on top of a pile of other files, and fixed her with a weary gaze.

"As you know, the President has authorised the creation of a team of elite soldiers, to strike at Schmidt and HYDRA whilst the bulk of the army is engaged with Hitler. Private Rogers—or should I say now, _Captain_ Rogers—will head up this team."

"I'm sure he'll do an excellent job," she said, whilst her heart slowly sank. She'd been hearing rumours for days that a new team of operatives would be put together to take out HYDRA… but she'd hoped she might be the one chosen to lead it. Outside of MI6, there were few soldiers with as much experience and knowledge as Peggy, and certainly none with any real experience of undercover operations within the U.S. Army.

She knew she ought to be grateful that within the SSR, at least, she had the freedom and trust to put her skills to use, but it was disheartening that the traditional army chain of command still saw an untested young man as more competent at warfare than a woman with years of field experience.

Still, she could hardly complain, for if she did, she'd no doubt develop a reputation as a woman who was never happy with her lot in life, and generally speaking, she was quite happy with her lot. Of course, things would be better without the war, and she wished dearly that Michael was still alive to counsel her during the times her anger got the better of her… but it could be worse.

"I've selected you to be Rogers' liaison," Phillips continued.

Peggy's heart skipped a beat. "Liaison?"

"Yes, you know, tell him what missions he's on, supply him with local intelligence, organise his transport. Oh, and I'll need you to take them somewhere quiet for a couple of weeks, for training. You know, all that sneaky stuff you're so good at. And for Gods' sake, try to teach Rogers something about strategy. He can't just go bull-headedly tearing into HYDRA facilities. It may have worked last time, but now they'll be expecting us."

There was a twinkle in Phillips' eye as he spoke… or perhaps it was a trick of the light from the desk lamp. Sometimes, it was hard to know whether Phillips' orders were intended to punish or to reward. In this case, she suspected it might be both. The colonel enjoyed tweaking brass noses, which was one of the reasons he let Peggy go on so many missions. That a woman was succeeding in espionage often made men bridle with indignation.

Perhaps this _liaison_ role could be another feather in her cap. If Peggy couldn't lead the team herself, she could at least train them to the best of her ability. _The team trained by a woman_. She would do everything within her power to see them succeed, and not just because she wanted that feather; it would be good to see Steve come out on top. All his life, he'd been the underdog. Now was his chance to show people what he was made of.

And perhaps secure some more funding for the SSR. The purse-strings were starting to get a little tight…

"These are the men Rogers wants," said Phillips, sliding the files across the desk.

With his permission Peggy opened them, and with each new file, her eyebrows rose higher and higher. Certainly, these men could fight, but whether they could be taught other, more useful skills, was another matter.

"Your thoughts?" Phillips prompted.

Peggy sat up a little straighter. That he was asking for her thoughts meant that he was genuinely interested in her opinion. And, unfortunately, she would have to be honest with him.

"Mr. Dernier should prove very useful," she said. "And Sergeant Barnes has some skill as a sharpshooter. As for the rest…" She selected two of the files and lay them side by side. "Privates Jones and Morita will be no good for undercover work. Simply put, their faces are too memorable, and they will stand out like sore thumbs. Sergeant Dugan may be handy in a tight spot, but I'm not sure he'll have an affinity for covert operations. Major Falsworth may do a little better; he has some command experience, and he already knows how to jump."

"Those were my thoughts, more or less," Phillips admitted. "So, you agree that this team is doomed to fail?"

Peggy hesitated. Six months ago, she would've said _yes_. But six months on deployment with an American taskforce had shown her that what the Americans lacked in experience and knowledge, they often made up for in exuberance and creative thinking.

"Not necessarily," she said. "It seems to me that a group of men who trust each other and have their minds focused on a goal, can achieve what might otherwise be deemed impossible."

"Is this you admitting you were wrong to tell me what a horrible mistake I'd made in letting Barnes and Wells handle those HYDRA bunkers back Frog-side?"

"I may have been a little too quick to judge," she said. It was the closest he would get to an admission of fault, and damn him if he tried to wring more out of her! "It's a mistake I don't plan to make again. The odds are stacked against Rogers and this team he wants, but weren't they also stacked against us in France? I'd like to see the odds defied again."

Phillips grunted. That usually mean she'd won some argument, even if she didn't always know what the argument was. "You think you can teach these men?"

"I'll pack both my carrot and my stick. One invariably works."

"Good. Oh, and one last thing. The brass wants this whole thing documented. They're sending a war correspondent, some kid named Frederico Lopresti." He handed her a slip of paper. "Here's his contact details. Have him start with whatever training you organise for Rogers' team."

"Very well, sir." She would pass the photographer's details on to Howard, and let him organise a meeting; Howard loved the press.

"Stark's in the process of designing some new equipment," said Phillips, possibly reading her mind. "Go find out where he's up to with that, and put in a request for anything you think you might need."

"Is there anything else you need me to do, sir?"

"One last thing. On your way out, grab me a coffee from the pot outside. Private Lorraine always puts too much sugar in my coffee; I think she's trying to assassinate me through heart disease."

 _Now_ _…_

Peggy stood in the doorway, propping it up in case the house should randomly decide to fall over. In front of her, the men were chatting idly about their families back home. She stood so still and so quiet that they seemed to completely forget she was there. Blending into the background was a skill not easily developed, but with time and patience, one could learn to diminish their own presence in a way that encouraged others to speak more openly.

Where Howard was, Peggy did not know. He'd been gone when the team arrived back from their field exercises, probably on some illicit _rendezvous_ with another dental nurse or whatever. She didn't approve of Howard's many escapades with women, but she had to give him his due; he never lied about what he was. Never pretended to be something he wasn't. An oversized man-child with an enormous libido he might be, but at least he was honest about it.

From further down the street, Steve and Sergeant Barnes appeared, and she could tell immediately that they'd patched things over. Both men travelled with springier steps than they had for the past couple of days, and their shoulders were straighter, as if weights had been lifted. _Atlas times two_ , she mused to herself. And, knowing them, their reconciliation had probably involved punching each other.

Soon enough it was time for dinner. Dugan was cooking today, but the air was suspiciously absent of delicious cooking smells. In fact, he hadn't even lit the stove. As she watched, Falsworth and Dernier brought out the small collapsible chairs they used for sitting around the stove, and readied them for the impending meal.

"Take a seat, everyone," said Dugan. He had donned a cooking apron which was spattered with something red. The blood of an animal, Peggy suspected, though surely he couldn't expect everyone to eat raw meat?

One by one, the men took their seats. Steve and Barnes were both grinning like idiots, another sure sign that they'd made up after their falling out. A few seconds after the last man was seated, Dugan exited the tent carrying a covered serving tray. Just where the Hell had he gotten _that_ from?

 _Oh yes. Howard._ The billionaire may not have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but he certainly seemed determined to die with one.

"Ta-daaa!" said Dugan, lifting the lid on the tray. A dozen or so sandwiches sat there, neatly cut into perfect triangles. "I give to you, PB&J sandwiches, as promised during one cold, lonely night back in Krausberg." Unfortunately, he lifted his head and spotted Peggy standing in the doorway. "Hey, Agent Carter, come join us for dinner! We have a spare chair!"

Just to prove that they did indeed have a spare chair, Freddie went and grabbed it. He set it up beside Steve, and waggled his eyebrows suggestively as he patted it. Though he was a scant eighteen years old, he sometimes seemed too worldly for his own good.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to deprive you," she called back.

"Nonsense! I've made enough for everyone. And I insist."

She had no other objections prepared, and she was too tired to think of any on the spot. All she could do was graciously accept the offer, and lower herself down into the rickety chair as Dugan made the rounds, bowing with a flourish as he presented the choice of sandwiches to each man. Morita, Jones, Freddie, Barnes and Steve accepted with glee. Dernier and Falsworth, on the other hand, looked less than impressed. The Frenchman took one and cradled it in his hands as if he feared it might explode without warning, whilst Falsworth opened his up and peered at the stuff inside.

"Well, I see the peanut butter," he said. "But where's the jelly I've been dreading?"

"Where's the jelly?" Dugan huffed. "Do you need spectacles or something, Monty? That pink stuff, right there, smeared on top of the peanut butter; that's fine raspberry jelly. I prefer strawberry, but I couldn't get hold of any at such short notice."

"That isn't jelly," said Falsworth. "That's jam. Look, I can see the seeds and everything."

Peggy decided to translate for him. "Jelly is what the Americans call jam," she said. "And what we call jelly, they call jello."

The major's brows lowered into a frown. "I can see there's still much I have to learn about American culture. My apologies, Captain, but it appears that book I gave you is missing an entry on the intricacies of jelly versus jam."

"Don't worry about it, I think this is one I can remember," said Steve.

"Thank you, Sergeant Dugan," she said, accepting one of the neatly sliced triangles. She bit into it, and the sweetness of the jam exploded over her tongue.

Falsworth eyed her warily, as if worried she might suddenly break out in hives. "How does it taste?"

"Surprisingly good," she admitted. "C'est trés bon," she added for Dernier's sake. "Though, Sergeant Dugan is right; it's better with strawberry jam than raspberry."

"Just how many languages do you speak?" Barnes asked.

"And when did you try PB&J with strawberry jelly?" Morita added.

"Just French, German and Russian," she said. "I tried Spanish, but it wasn't for me. And I recently spent some time in New York… as well as considerably more time _under_ it," she told Morita. "I had the opportunity to try several signature American dishes. PB &J was, unfortunately, probably the best of them."

"I feel like I should learn a foreign language," said Steve. "I think Bucky and I are the only ones here who couldn't get by outside of England."

Sergeant Barnes offered a shrug. "Je parle Français en petit pois."

Peggy laughed at his claim, as did Jones and Dernier. Still, at least Barnes was _trying_.

"I guess I sit corrected," said Steve.

"Don't worry, Cap, I only speak good ol' American English, too," said Dugan. "I concentrate on the hard work, like shootin' Nazis, and leave the translating to guys like Gabe, who have a head for that kinda thing."

"Speaking of hard work," said Barnes, "I don't suppose, Agent Carter, that you or Stark brought a projector and a few copies of those Captain America movies out here with you?" He clapped Steve on the shoulder. "I'd like to see what this big galump's been doing for the past six months."

Steve's cheeks flushed a subtle shade of pink, and Peggy stifled the smile that tried to creep across her lips. Captain America blushed much more easily than his fans would probably suspect.

"Didn't I already tell you guys that you're banned from watching those movies?" he said, a mock-scowl covering up the blush. "It's a proviso of being on the team."

"That's a real shame," said Freddie. "I thought the movies were very inspiring. My favourite was the one where you had a knife-fight with those five Gestapo in that French villa."

"Did they ever do a movie about your origin story?" asked Gabe.

Steve shook his head, but couldn't quite hide the sadness in his eyes. Peggy knew that he still mourned the death of Abraham Erskine almost as much as she.

"No, Captain America is supposed to represent something bigger than one man. He could be anybody. He could be every soldier out there, just waiting to find greatness. The embodiment of freedom and righteousness."

"If only they knew about that time you stole Mrs. Carmichael's apple pie, right from where it was cooling on her windowsill," said Barnes, his face illuminated by a gleeful grin.

"Uh, Buck, that was _you_ who stole that pie. You cut a slice for me, Mary-Ann and yourself, then slid it back onto the sill. By the time she realised three slices were missing, we were half a street away and wiping the crumbs from our chins."

Sergeant Barnes ran a hand through his hair and looked for all the world like a naughty boy who'd just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Umm, I forgot about that. Still, you didn't say no to a slice."

"Mrs. Carmichael _did_ make the best apple pie on the whole block… right after your mom, of course."

"Personally," said Major Falsworth, "I've always found apple crumble to be superior to apple pie."

The men immediately fell to arguing about the merits of crumble vs. pie, and Peggy decided that if the current war ever ended, the next Great War would probably be started over baked goods.

She couldn't help but smile as she sat surrounded by inane arguments and idle banter. Being with Steve and his team… it was giving her some indication of what her own brother might've experienced during his time as a soldier. And she realised, now, that she'd judged them too harshly. She'd imagined whole armies of Gilmore Hodges, of men who were full of their own self-importance. Somewhere along the way, she'd forgotten that there might also be whole armies of Michael Carters, and that every man out here was a son, a brother, a nephew or a grandchild… and for the most part, they were just men trying to do what was right.

It was a rare insight, and the thought of her brother sitting in the circle, arguing about apple crumble whilst politely snacking on PB&J sandwiches, brought a tear to her eye. It was because of Michael that she'd joined the SOE, and she would always regret that he could never see what she had made of her life. Still, she knew he would be proud, and for now, that was enough. She would keep his memory alive through her actions, and in her heart. She just wished he could've had the chance to meet Captain Rogers… he would've liked Steve more than he'd liked Fred.


	86. Commandos Reborn

We Were Soldiers

 _86\. Commandos Reborn_

Bucky stifled a yawn and rubbed at his eyes. They felt like _Italy eyes_ —the same gritty, heavy, tired feeling he'd experienced after the SSR crossed over from France into Italy and joined the war in earnest. Eyes that had spent too many nights in a foxhole, too many days roving the skies for enemy _Stukas_ , eyes that lay awake staring at a low canvas ceiling because sleep was an elusive mistress.

They were _Italy-like_ , but not _Italy-exactly_. For a start, there had been no digging of foxholes; the sandbags had served that purpose. As well, the food had been considerably better than on deployment, except for the one day when they'd allowed Dernier to cook, and the combination of French onion soup and odd cheese had made everyone violently ill the next day.

No deaths, either. Always a bonus when nobody died.

But his eyes were still tired. His muscles still ached and his hands still shook, on occasion. Worse, Steve had noticed. Even worse, it was coffee that had given him away; their last damn cup, too. Dugan had just made a fresh batch using the last of their supply, and handed a cup to Bucky. His hand started shaking, and near-boiling liquid slopped over the top. His hiss of pain had been too quiet for Dugan's ears, but not for Steve's super-hearing.

"You okay, Buck?" he'd asked, eyes full of sympathy, voice heavy with concern.

"Yeah, just spilled my coffee," he'd replied.

"Are you hurt? I mean, it looked like your hand was shaking."

"I'm just a bit cold." To prove how cold he was, he rubbed his arms and assumed a more hunched position.

Steve had gone to fetch him a blanket, so Bucky suspected his ruse had worked for now, but his luck wouldn't hold out forever. Steve wasn't an idiot, and he was too damn attentive for his own good. Eventually, he would put two and two together, and Bucky had no idea what he'd say if that happened.

Several times since arriving in England, Steve had asked if he'd wanted to talk about what happened in Krausberg. Each time Bucky turned him down, he saw hurt and confusion in his friend's eyes, and he knew he was the cause. They had always confided in each other. Always. But things were different now. Steve wasn't just his best friend; Steve was relying on him. If Steve knew what Bucky had imagined doing, back in Krausberg, and what he had wished to stop the torture, then he would lose confidence in Bucky's ability to remain strong. He would worry that if Bucky was captured again, he would break and tell the enemy things they ought not to know. And if he knew that in the darkest moment, Bucky had tried to blow his own brains out to put an end to the pain, he would doubt his desire to fight. He'd worry that, if things got bad, Bucky would rather die than hold on and keep fighting.

No, Krausberg was something he would take to his grave. Steve and the others, they needed him to be strong. To be unflappable and unbreakable. He wasn't gonna be the weak link. He wasn't gonna be the man too damaged by his experiences to keep serving his country. And he certainly wasn't going to be known as the guy who tried to take his own life, and who imagined his friends taking his place on the torture table just to stop the pain. He would rather die than tell them how he'd imagined them suffering in his place. Would rather be sent home in disgrace than present them with the truth of his cowardice.

"We should be back in London within half an hour," said Agent Carter, turning in her seat to address the men behind her in the bus. She had a notebook open on her knee, and a pen poised in her hand. Probably writing reports for the brass. "I recommend you all take advantage of the hotel's showers when we get back."

Bucky wrinkled his nose. He didn't smell _that_ bad, did he?

"Except you, Captain," she added. "The colonel will want to see you right away."

"About what?" asked Steve.

"To debrief you on your training, and to discuss your selection of second-in-command."

Steve's brows creased into a frown Bucky hadn't seen much of recently. "Second-in-command?"

"Yes. You'll need someone to ensure your orders are carried out, in case something should happen to you."

"You mean, in case he's captured or killed?" Bucky clarified.

"Or otherwise incapacitated," Carter told him coolly. She turned back around and continued her notes, and every other pair of eyes swivelled Stevewards.

"For the love of God, don't pick me," said Morita. "I don't want to have to be the one to face Colonel Phillips and tell him I lost Captain America in some romp across Belgium or whatever."

"I guess I've got some thinking to do," Steve said. He looked no less frowny at the prospect of choosing a second.

"I feel like we should have a name," said Gabe. "You know, a code-name, or a team-name, or something."

"How 'bout _The Allied Allstars_?" Dugan offered the suggestion with a twirl of the corner of his bushy moustache. Dernier pulled his face, whilst Gabe shook his head and offered something else.

" _The Rainbow Seven_." When he was faced with a round of blank stares, he elaborated. "Because we're all different colours!" The whole bus was filled with loud groans.

"Why not just go with _The Howling Commandos_?" said Freddie. "After all, that was the name of Captain America's team in the movies and the comic books. It's already out there in the social consciousness."

" _Howling Commandos_ ," Morita scoffed. "More like _Barking Mad Commandos_ , if you ask me."

"The Barking Mad Howling Commandos has a certain Jenny-say-qua," said Bucky, at which Dernier laughed. And, more slowly, the Frenchman enunciated, " _Je-ne-sais-quoi._ "

"I'm not sure I trust you guys to name things," said Steve. "Next you'll be coming up with something cheesy, like _'Infinity Squad'_ or _'Allied Avengers'_."

"Oh come off it, we're not _that_ bad," said Falsworth.

Soon, London dominated the sky-line, but not in the same way New York did back home. Everything in England was smaller; the buildings, the roads, even the portion sizes. You didn't get as much bang for your buck, but then, he supposed things had been the same at home, during the Depression. He'd been old enough to understand that you didn't throw anything away without checking with Mom first. And that when you got a plateful of food for dinner, you left the plate so clean it looked like it had already been washed.

The bus dropped everyone minus Carter and Steve outside the hotel, then continued on to Whitehall. The 'Howling Commandos' picked up their bags and trudged wearily into the lobby. The slice of civilisation was welcome after two weeks in a tent, but it wasn't home. It would never be home. Nothing except the house he'd grown up in would ever be home.

"So, who do you think Cap'll pick to be his second?" asked Gabe.

Dugan puffed up his chest. "He'll need someone strong that he can rely on. So of course, I'm the natural choice."

Bucky snorted. "Steve needs someone he knows he can trust. Someone who spent years with him, and knows how he thinks. Plus, I have the automatic best friend bonus." But in his heart of hearts, it wasn't what he wanted. Whenever he led men, he inevitably got them killed. It was a heavy responsibility, and each loss added to his guilt. Let someone else carry that weight.

"That just means it's less likely to be you," Dugan countered. "Cap's fair. He won't want it to look like he's playing favourites."

"All I know is it won't be me," said Gabe. "A lowly private, and a black to boot. Can you imagine the fits they'd throw back home?"

"Hey Monty," said Morita. "Who do you think he'll pick?"

"Hmm?" For once, Falsworth was so distracted that he forgot to grimace over the use of the name. His eyes became more focused on the others, and Bucky could practically _see_ him replaying the last five minutes of the conversation in his head. "Oh, I don't know. I suppose it won't be entirely his choice anyway. Like Jones said, some choices are more questionable than others, and Dernier is a civilian, so we can probably rule him out right away."

"Good." Dernier punctuated the sentiment with a stiff nod. He didn't care much for authority, and had only agreed to join the team because he saw it as a good way of contributing to the war effort. Plus the fact that Steve had single-handedly saved him from Krausberg certainly helped.

"Everything okay, Monty?" Bucky asked. "You look like you're a million miles away."

This time, Falsworth _did_ grimace over the name, but he offered an explanation nonetheless. "Just thinking of home. Did you know, I've missed the last three Christmases with my family, because I've been on deployment, or in training? I'd hoped I might make it home for the holidays this year, even if it was just for a day. But I suppose we could be sent into the field at a moment's notice." He let out the deepest sigh that Bucky had ever heard. "I suppose it will be another year before I get a Christmas at home."

"Why don't you ask Steve if you can have the day to spend with your family?" Bucky suggested. "I'm sure one day won't hurt. What are the chances of us being sent on a mission on Christmas Day?"

The suggestion seemed to rouse Falsworth out of his mental fog. Shouldering his duffel bag, he fixed his gaze on the elevator door at the end of the corridor. "No, I'm afraid that the war must come first. There will be time for merry-making after the fighting is done. Besides, none of you will be going home to your families this year, and I'd feel just terrible being surrounded by food and comfort while you lot are slumming it here in the _Strand_."

Falsworth's words triggered pangs of longing and regret deep in Bucky's stomach. This would be his first ever Christmas away from home. The first ever time he hadn't spent the holidays surrounded by his family. Mary-Ann would come up from Baltimore, while Charlie would have a break from college, and Janet would moan about having to share a room with her sister again. They'd put their presents under the tree on Christmas eve, and wake up on Christmas day to the smell of Mom cooking oatmeal sweetened with honey, and of bacon sizzling on the grill. Bacon, fried tomatoes and poached eggs; their breakfast treat each Christmas.

They'd spend the morning opening presents, then head to midday Mass at church. After that, Mom and the girls would make a start on Christmas dinner, though the biggest chicken Mom could find would've been roasting slowly in the oven since just after breakfast. Dad would bring out his jazz records, because he hated listening to Christmas songs on Christmas day, and trumpets and trombones would he heard throughout the whole house and even from out on the street. Mom would complain at Dad to turn the music down, and Dad would respond by grabbing Mom and taking her for a dance around the kitchen.

Eggnog would follow, and then dinner. Chicken so tender it fell off the bone. Potatoes roasted in dripping, seasoned with rosemary picked fresh from the pot Mom kept in the back yard. Carrots and parsnips and Brussels sprouts. And gravy! Mom made gravy so thick you could put the sprouts on top of it and they wouldn't sink. And just when everyone thought they were so full they couldn't eat another morsel, Mom would bring out the apple pie, and somehow, everybody would find a little room inside their bursting stomachs. Bucky could practically taste the sweetness of the apple pie, and the explosion of the cinnamon which topped it over his tongue.

This year, things wouldn't be the same. Not just for Bucky, but for his family. He imagined the mood more somber. Maybe Mom would keep reaching for her handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. Dad wouldn't play the jazz music. Mary-Ann, Charlie and Janet would look with sadness at the empty seats around the table, because not only would Bucky not be there, but Steve wouldn't be there, either. Having Steve over for Christmas day was practically a tradition. Ever since his mom had died, Christmases had been lonely for Steve, and not even Bucky's family had been completely able to fill the void.

"Hey, we should do a secret Santa," he suggested.

"Que?" asked Dernier, and he wasn't the only one looking perplexed.

"It's something we used to do in the office where I worked. We all put our names into a hat, and pick one out at random. Whoever we pick, we buy a Christmas present for. We could exchange gifts on Christmas day, and have our own celebrations." Maybe it would help to alleviate some of their home-sickness, too.

"Sure," said Dugan. "Count me in."

In the end, they all agreed, including Freddie, and Bucky agreed on Steve's behalf. They made plans to unpack, get cleaned up and meet in the _Fiddle_ in two hours' time. Bucky left a message for Steve with the concierge, and hoped that Phillips wouldn't keep his friend _too_ long with talk of official business; they had a Christmas to plan.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Outside Phillips' office, Steve was made to wait. The waiting was made more awkward by the presence of Private Lorraine, who eyed him over the top of her newspaper in a way that Steve could only describe as _predatory_. In the past, his dame-problems had mostly related to the fact that women didn't look at him twice, especially whenever Bucky was around. The only girl who'd shown any interest in him was Mary-Ann, but she'd been the closest thing to a sister Steve would ever have, and it would'a felt wrong to go out with her like that.

Now, he had whole new problems, and for the first time in his life he had to think of women in ways he'd never really thought of them before. There was no denying that Private Lorraine was attractive, but her beauty was marred by the calculating gleam in her eyes. As he sat there, Steve imagined their roles reversed. If Steve had been a dame, and Private Lorraine had been a guy, then her aggressive pursuit of a kiss would've been highly inappropriate and not at all something a respectful guy would've done. And it was worrying, because if she accepted that behaviour in herself, wasn't she also accepting it in men? Steve wouldn't stand for a guy being pushy with a dame, and now he decided that he wouldn't stand for the opposite, either.

"So, Captain Rogers," she said, her voice honeyed and sultry. The newspaper dipped a little so she could better peer over it. "How did you find your training?"

"Very effective, ma'am. I learnt a lot."

"Ma'am?" She folded the newspaper and placed it neatly on the desk. "That sounds so stuffy and old-fashioned. Why don't you just call me Lorraine?"

Steve could feel his control of the situation slipping. He needed a way out, and fast. What would Bucky do, in his place?

 _Flirt like crazy._

Right. So, his best friend was no help. What should he do? Why was it so hard to discourage one dame? He ought to be able to handle one woman; he was a Captain in the U.S. Army, for Heaven's sake!

Inspiration struck like a lightning bolt. Buoyed by his plan, Steve stood up and approached the desk. He looked down at Private Lorraine, and she gave a flutter of her long, dark lashes.

"Is that what Colonel Phillips calls you?"

"I—what?" The predator behind her eyes was now confused. It hadn't expected its prey to stop and turn from flight.

"I asked if that's what Colonel Phillips calls you," Steve said, groping for calm and, surprisingly, finding it. For some reason, Rita Hayworth's face flashed through his mind. He didn't think Rita got flustered about _anything_. Maybe it was time to take a page out of her book.

"Well, no. But he's the Colonel." He could see her resolve slipping as the ground beneath her became shaky. It seemed she didn't do any better than Steve when in unfamiliar territory. Probably wasn't used to things not going her way when she fluttered her lashes.

"And I'm a Captain," he said. "And it would be unprofessional of me to refer to you by your given name. And it is equally unprofessional of _you_ to make overtures towards a commanding officer."

"But—I didn't—"

He was on a roll. He couldn't let her try to worm her way out of it now. "So, just this once, I'm going to overlook your indiscretion and give you a chance to act in a more professional manner in the future. If you don't feel you can restrain yourself, Private, I'm sure we can find some nice, quiet post for you to work at without distraction. Somewhere on the Eastern Front, perhaps. Is that clear?"

She licked her lips. Now, her blue eyes were wide with a combination of fear and confusion. Her flawless skin was a paler shade of white, and he could tell she desperately wanted to retreat. "Y—yes sir."

"Good. And remember, Private, that you don't just _wear_ that uniform; you _represent_ it. Everything you do while wearing it reflects on America, and neither I nor Colonel Phillips will tolerate any behaviour which reflects badly on our country or the fine men and women giving their lives in service. Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" he asked.

It took her a moment to remember to salute, and that was how Peggy found them as she stepped out of Phillips' office. Steve could only imagine what they looked like, him standing tall in front of the desk, while Private Lorraine was attempting to wilt while saluting. One corner of Peggy's lips tugged up into a smile, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. Still, Steve could tell he'd just done right for the first time in a long time, and he'd done it all by himself, without anyone else to prompt him.

"Colonel Phillips will see you now, Captain," said Peggy. And, without waiting for a response, she sauntered down the corridor in a way that made Steve's heart skip several beats.

It was with pride in his step that Steve entered the Colonel's office, and he couldn't help the ghost of a smile haunting his lips as he saluted and waited to be told to stand at his ease. Today, he'd won a battle. True, it was a small battle, and not one of any consequence for the war effort, but where there was one victory, others would surely follow.

"Take a seat, Rogers," said Phillips. Steve lowered himself into the chair in front of the desk, and it creaked beneath his weight. "Agent Carter tells me your training went well. She's scored you as eighty-nine percent on seventy percent of your missions, and ninety-two on the remainder." His bushy brows dipped into a frown as his gaze skipped down the report in his hands. "Except this one… the 'rescue the Allied scientist' scenario. Says here your men performed well below the expected standard."

Peggy had been keeping score? Damn. He should've expected that. "With respect, sir, there were mitigating circumstances. Mouldy cheese was involved." And it was only thanks to his enhanced constitution that he'd gone into that scenario with nothing more than a little indigestion. Poor Bucky and Jones had spent almost the entire day vomiting into a bucket, and nobody except Dernier had been much better.

"Hmph. Anyway, you've had a higher success rate than that predicted for standard GI troops when we ran the numbers, so your team's been given the go-ahead to commence missions. Before I start sending you out in the field, however, there's the small matter of your second-in-command."

Steve straightened in his chair. "Yessir. I've been thinking long and hard about the matter"—or as long and hard as one _could_ think with only an hour's notice—"and—"

"And your consideration has been pointless," Phillips interrupted. "You need a second, and it'll be Major Falsworth."

"Sir? Don't I get a say?"

In his head, he'd already picked Bucky. His best friend had all the qualities of a great leader, and he had experience of leading men on covert missions. And even though they didn't always agree on tactics, Bucky could easily anticipate Steve's wishes, and had the presence to ensure others carried them out. There was nobody Steve would rather have watching his back, or acting as his second.

"Decision's already been made." Phillips closed the file and dropped it back into his drawer before looking up at Steve. "Men much higher up the chain of command than you or I have reviewed the options and determined that Major Falsworth is the best choice."

"Do you agree with that determination?" Steve pressed.

"Falsworth is the only commissioned officer on your team," the colonel pointed out. "He's served the longest, and has considerable experience. I not only agree with the decision, I support it. You played hard-ball on the team itself, Rogers. Do you have any idea how hard I had to argue for Dernier to remain, not to mention Jones and Morita? You got the team you wanted, and this is the price you have to pay. If you ask me, it's a damn small price."

Steve bit his tongue. Back in Coventry, he'd pulled Bucky up for not respecting the chain of command; not respecting _his_ command. If he didn't show that same respect now, that same willingness to obey his superiors, he was nothing but a hypocrite. It was not a character trait he wanted to be known for. He would just have to do the best job possible with the resources he'd been given.

"Very well, sir. I'll inform Major Falsworth of the decision."

"Good. Now, Agent Carter has all Allied eyes and ears searching for HYDRA. In the meantime, there will undoubtedly be other missions for you and your team to carry out; missions to aid the greater war effort. As soon as I have something for you to do, I'll let you know. Until then, your time is your own. Ask your men to spend it _relatively_ sober. This isn't furlough."

"Yessir."

"Dismissed, Captain."

Private Lorraine was gone from the desk when Steve stepped out the office, but he heard the coffee machine hard at work in the small break room. He suspected she'd been brewing coffee since the moment his meeting with Phillips began, but he preferred avoidance to her predatory gaze.

The winter chill of London nipped his skin as he left the SSR's secret HQ under Whitehall, but he barely gave it a second thought. Back home, cold winter air had been one of his many asthma triggers, but with his enhanced metabolism, he was pretty warm. Nobody else shared that sentiment; the Londoners wore long coats, woolly gloves and thick scarves, often from mis-matched sets. What was felt as the pinch of war back home, was out here a squeeze.

Though he didn't know for sure where his team would be, he could take a pretty good guess. His suspicions were confirmed when he stepped into the _Fiddle_ and heard the familiar cheer of Dugan winning another arm-wrestling match with some hapless local or airman.

Sure enough, as Steve made his way towards their usual spot in the main room, a man who smelled like fish and wore the attire of a dock-hand was leaving the table with a scowl, rubbing his arm in a way that suggested Dugan had really given it his all. So far, the only person he _hadn_ _'t_ been able to beat in an arm-wrestle was Steve.

"Hey, Cap," Dugan called upon spotting Steve loitering by the bar, "come join the celebrations!"

"What are we celebrating?" Sometimes, it seemed merely breathing was enough reason for his team to celebrate. They sure did like their drinks. Despite Phillips' request for relative sobriety, he would give them this night to enjoy themselves. The past two weeks had been hard on all of them, mentally as well as physically.

"My twenty-fifth consecutive win." Dugan beamed proudly. He pounded his fist against his own chest. "An undefeated streak."

"Bullshit," Bucky scoffed. He already had a glass of Scotch cupped within his hands. On the bright side, it was a _small_ Scotch. And it had ice. "Steve beat you three weeks ago, somewhere before victory twenty-one and twenty-two, if I remember."

Dugan hand-waved the objection away. "Doesn't count. Cap's super-human, and I only wrestled to test the limits of his strength. Besides, when Morita joined in on my side, to try and take Cap down, it invalidated the attempt."

"And Steve _still_ beat the two of you… and Morita was using both hands!" Bucky laughed, which lifted Steve's spirits. Bucky laughing was Bucky on the mend. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard such happiness from his friend.

"Like I said: super-human! Anyway, to celebrate my milestone win, the next round's on me." He turned in his seat to face the bar and roared, "Lizzy! A round of drinks for Captain America and the Howling Commandos! Put it on my tab."

Morita quickly downed what was left of his drink to make room on the small table for the next one. "You know," he said, "this English beer ain't so bad, once you get used to it. I mean, sure, it's flat and warm, but it's got body."

"I'll stick to the good stuff," said Bucky, holding up his whisky tumbler.

Before anybody else could offer their opinion on British beer, Lizzy arrived with the first four drinks of the round. "Here you boys go," she said, favouring Dugan with a smile. "I'll fetch the others as soon as I've had chance to pull them."

"Thanks, Lizzy, you're the best," Dugan beamed. He doffed his hat and placed it on the table in front of him. "Put your tip for tonight on my tab, too."

She winked at him. "I already have."

Dugan's gaze followed her as she returned to the bar. "One day, I'm gonna marry that woman."

"Before we start discussing your wedding," said Steve, "I oughta tell you how my meeting with Phillips went."

He had their attention so thoroughly that none of them even blinked when Lizzy brought the remaining drinks and left them on the table. They were eager to learn who was going to be his second.

"First, Phillips is pleased with our training. He's gonna try to find a mission for us soon, even if it's not HYDRA-related." He paused, and a bubble of silence seemed to envelop the table, each man holding his breath. Steve decided to put a positive spin on his next words. There was no need for any of them to know that Falsworth hadn't been Steve's choice. If they thought this had been forced on them, they might resent it, and might not view Falsworth's leadership with the weight it deserved. Later, he would explain things to Bucky, and make sure his friend's feathers weren't too ruffled over not being picked.

"Second, Phillips and I discussed the matter of my second-in-command. Major Falsworth, you'll be in charge of the team should anything happen to me."

Falsworth nodded, but didn't seem overly surprised. "I had a feeling it would come to this. War is as much about politics as it is fighting, and I suspect the men who hold the SSR's purse-strings had already narrowed down your options considerably."

It was an astute guess, and Steve didn't bother trying to deny it. "Regardless, I know you'll do a great job. You're a good soldier, and a good officer."

Steve glanced around the faces of the other men. None of them seemed surprised or unhappy about the choice. Even Bucky managed a congratulatory smile for Falsworth. So, they toasted the Major's assignment, and ordered another round of drinks to celebrate.

He was starting to understand Phillips' concerns about the Commandos' drinking.

"Now that that's out of the way, we can get to more important business," said Bucky. From his pocket, he pulled out eight small strips of paper that had been folded in half. "It's time to select names for our Secret Santa. I have here all of our names, plus Freddie—"

"Just where _is_ Freddie?" Steve interrupted. The young man was absent from the gathering… though he probably wasn't old enough to be served anyway.

"Mumbled something about Stark's lab and developing his pictures," said Morita. "I hope they're over-exposed and don't turn out."

"How does this Secret Santa thing work, Buck?" he asked.

"Our names go into a hat," he gestured at Dugan's hat on the table, "and we all pick one out. Whoever you get, you buy a Christmas present for. But, if you pick your own name, you have to put it back in and select another. Dugan, your hat, please?"

Dugan's eyes narrowed. "Wait just one minute, Cinderella. How do we know you haven't just written your own name seven times? We could all be buying you presents, and none of us any the wiser."

"C'mon, you really think I'm capable of doing something so underhanded?"

"Well, I've met you, so yeah."

Clearly holding back a sigh of annoyance, Bucky unfolded all the paper strips to show a different name scrawled on each one. With Dugan finally mollified, he folded the strips again and tossed them into the hat. That done, he shook the hat to mix the slips up, and held it forward to allow them to pick names one at a time. When it was Steve's turn, he reached in, grabbed a slip, and unfolded it behind his hand, so nobody else could see it.

 _BARNES_.

He used his best poker-face to hide his grin. He'd already planned on getting Bucky a Christmas present, and Peggy had given him an idea about what to get. It would be even nicer to be Bucky's Secret Santa. When all the names were picked, except for the one left over for Freddie—they made Lizzy read it to be sure Freddie wouldn't be getting himself—the celebrations resumed. Satisfied that there truly were no hard feelings over Falsworth's appointment, Steve finally relaxed. He should've known the guys would be happy with whoever Steve chose. They were good men, and he was looking forward to their first official mission together.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky shivered and pulled his jacket closer around himself. Above, the stars glittered in the cloudless sky. London wasn't particularly cold in comparison to New York, but it was _damp_. It somehow found a way to sink beneath his skin and chill him to his bones. Even with a belly full of whisky, he was cold.

Walking beside him along the river bank, Steve seemed to have no such problems. Though he was wearing his jacket, the top button of his shirt was unfastened, and his tie was skew-whiff. He'd always been useless with ties.

"What's so funny?" Steve asked.

Bucky smothered the grin… a little. "Just rememberin' all the times I had to help you with your necktie. You always were bad at tying the things."

"Unfortunately, that's something Dr. Erskine's formula _couldn_ _'t_ fix. But I'll take no asthma over tie-tying any day."

They continued in a silence broken only by the lapping of the Thames against the river-banks, and the distant hum of a motor engine. When Steve finally spoken again, Bucky knew what he was going to say.

"About Falsworth being my second-in-command—"

"You don't have to explain anything to me, Steve."

"Yes, I do. Dammit, will you stop walking for just a minute?"

So he stopped and turned to face his friend. Steve had always been a worrier, and Bucky had told him time and time again that the worry would take years off his life. Steve was also terrible at listening to advice, and that, too, hadn't changed with the serum. Even now, Steve's brows were becoming a road-map of creases and frowns.

"I wanted to pick you," Steve said. "But I didn't get a choice in the matter. According to Phillips, Falsworth was the only one acceptable to the brass. But if I had my way, you'd be my second. I just don't want you thinking that you weren't picked because I don't have faith in your skills, or anything like that."

"Like I said, you don't have to explain. I understand why Falsworth was picked, and for what it's worth, he's a good choice."

"Then… you're not disappointed?"

"Not in the slightest." He could tell Steve wasn't convinced, so he drove the point home. "It's kind of a relief. Command is tiring. Having to think about variables and make contingency plans… it's a real drain, especially when you don't get a break. I'm looking forward to being Bucky Barnes: Sharpshooter Extraordinaire. Besides, you know I'll always be here if you need me. And on the bright side, I don't have to take orders from Dugan, so there really is a silver lining to every cloud."

Steve chuckled. "Alright. I'm glad you're not sore over the matter. Anyway, I didn't just ask you to walk back with me because I wanted to check on your feelings. I also wanna ask your advice."

"Then your question must either be about Scotch, or dames." Steve was at least as knowledgeable as Bucky about everything else. There wasn't much Steve needed advice for, overall.

"The latter." He set off walking again, and Bucky trotted after him until he caught up. "I wanna get something for Peggy. For Christmas."

Bucky whistled low. "Wow, you must be really keen on her. I only bought one dame a Christmas present before, and that was only 'cos her best friend let slip that she was gettin' _me_ something." Buying gifts was pretty serious. Flowers and candies didn't count as real gifts when you were courting: they were the bare minimum. A way of expression interest without words. "What did you have in mind?"

"Nothing. That's the problem." Steve kicked a pebble and it landed in the Thames with a 'plop'. Bucky couldn't see anything that far out in the darkness, but he heard a couple of ducks quack in complaint of the stone. "I mean, I already know what I wanna get for my Secret Santa, but Peggy's different."

"Buy her a gun," Bucky suggested. "She likes guns. Or a knife. Who doesn't enjoy a good knife?"

"Could we be serious for a moment?"

Bucky snorted. "I'm being entirely serious. In case you hadn't notice, your girl isn't exactly Regular Sally."

"She isn't my girl." Steve cleared his throat and quickly continued. "I mean, we've been out for dinner, but I'm not really sure it was a date. Honestly, I have no idea what's between us. I'd like it to be _more_. Or at least _clear_. Every time another dame talks to me or even looks at me, I feel guilty and immediately wonder what Peggy would think. Which I know is stupid, because it's not even like we have something official. It's just… it's confusing," he admitted, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Poor Steve, he really was clueless. He also had a lot of catching up to do, and hadn't exactly picked an easy girl to make a first attempt with. As soon as he met her, Bucky knew that Carter was going to be one of those dames who made a guy prove himself and work for her affection. Steve seemed to be doing an okay job so far, but they weren't exactly at that age anymore where they could just ask, "Hey, you wanna go steady?" That was teenager stuff. But one thing Bucky had figured out was, children lied to themselves. Told themselves, _everything is easier when you_ _'re older. Everything is more fun_.

It wasn't easier. It wasn't more fun. Mistakes were not so readily forgotten, and by the time you were Bucky-and-Steve aged, you were expected to know something about everything. Steve didn't really know how to talk to dames. And he still didn't know how to dance. He was just starting to learn what he should've started ten years ago. He had a Hell of a lot of catching up to do.

"Just make sure it's something from your heart," he suggested. "And something that you know she'll like. But nothing too heavy; like you said, you don't have anything official yet. You don't wanna go giving her jewelry when you're not even officially dating, because that'll make you see like you're trying too hard." Besides, he couldn't recall Carter wearing much jewelry. "If it helps, she likes dogs. She used to have a Lhaso Apso called _Picasso_ , when she was a kid."

Steve nodded. "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks."

It wasn't until they reached the front door of the _Strand_ that Steve spoke again. He stopped in the glow of light spilling out from the glass window and asked, "Remember when you used to take girls home to meet your mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Were there any she didn't like?"

"A couple, but she never actually said it. It was more how she acted that told me how she felt." Nobody could do stiff, over-politeness like Rosalie Barnes, and Bucky knew he wouldn't be bringing the girls in question back to the house for a second visit. "Why?"

Steve's lips tugged into a sad smile. "Just wondering what Mom would think of Peggy. It's at times like this, when I think of all the stuff other guys would be doing, that I miss her the most. Normal stuff, like bringing a girl home."

"Your mom would love Carter," he assured his friend. "Hell, _my_ mom would love Carter. I can just picture the three of them sitting in one room together; the family albums would be out, and you and I would be cringing over all those old stories we hoped would never be told."

"You know, I'd give anything to have that scenario be real." The happy shine in Steve's eyes grew dull as reality crashed into the dream. "I guess I should be glad I still have you. You and your family have always been a second family to me."

"And when we get back, you can introduce Carter to my folks and we can sit through those stories for as long as you like," he said, offering a comforting pat on the shoulder for his friend.

"In that case, we need to find a girl for you, too. That way we can both be embarrassed in front of a dame."

"Tell you what, why don't we work on getting you and Agent Carter off the ground, then we can worry about my prospects?" he offered weakly. Six months ago, he would've leapt at the chance to find a nice girl to spend some time with. But that was before Krausberg. He was only just getting used to being around his friends without being crushed by the guilt that place had inflicted on him; he couldn't imagine being happy with a dame right now. First, he had to figure out what Zola had done to him, and why there were days when he only felt like half a person. First he had to find a way to put his pieces back together. After that was done, after the war was won, then he could think about the future.


	87. Christmas Cheer

We Were Soldiers

 _87\. Christmas Cheer_

"So, who'd you get?" asked Morita.

Bucky dodged a pair of shoppers and fell back beside the shorter man. "Telling you would betray the whole point of Secret Santa."

"C'mon, I'm gonna learn anyway once you give your gift, and I already know it's not me. Besides, you're just as stuck for ideas as I am."

"Actually, I know exactly what I want to get," Bucky told him imperiously. He and Morita had decided—after confirming that neither of them had picked the other out of the hat—to do a little Secret Santa window-shopping. Despite the measure of austerity inflicted by years of war, the windows of Oxford Street's shops were overflowing with goods of all kinds. Apparently, despite rationing and a lack of affordable clothing available to the general public, the well-to-do had considerably more choice. One window showed off womens' dresses, and the price tags read a full year's Army pay.

"I get the feeling we're shopping on the wrong street," said Morita. So, they relocated to a street less swanky, and spent twenty minutes browsing the wares of a local market. "Alright, help me out," Morita said at last. "I got Falsworth. What am I supposed to buy for our fearless second-in-command?"

"A jar of peanut butter."

"Ha-ha, Barnes. I'm being serious here. What if he picked me, and bought me something great?"

"Falsworth is easy," Bucky said. "Remember that training mission last week, one of the 'capture the flag' scenarios? How he was complaining how hard it is to get a decent cup of tea with everything rationed so tightly? I bet he'd enjoy a packet of Earl Grey tea leaves."

"Oh yeah! If I'd realised listening to the guy's complaints would come in so handy, I would've listened a bit harder." Morita chuckled and patted the pocket of his jacket which held his wallet. "Don't believe what Dugan says about you; you're a genius."

"What does Dugan say about me?"

Morita jogged over to the other side of the road and turned back to offer a wave. "I'm gonna go look for someone who sells tea. Thanks again, Barnes." The crowd of shoppers swallowed him up, and Bucky was left alone on the pavement. So much for shopping with company!

Luckily, Dugan was not a hard man to buy for, and Bucky already knew what gift to get. Back in some other life, Wells had won Dugan's tobacco pipe off him in a poker contest, then offered to let him win it back. But Italy had been harsh, steeped in chaos and death, and there had been little time after that for games. The pipe hadn't been in Wells' footlocker when Bucky went through it, which must've meant he'd taken it with him on that final mission. By now it was probably in Nazi possession… or still lying with Wells where he had died.

He put aside the macabre thoughts and began searching for a tobacco store. When he finally found one, it was a sad little affair, its shelves almost depleted of stock. What was available was extortionately priced, but luckily, Bucky had six months' worth of pay he'd barely touched. _Maybe while I_ _'m at it, I should try to find something for Mom and Dad, and Mary-Ann, Janet and Charlie_.

He shook his head. Even if he could find something suitable for them, it would take months to ship home, and unlike letters, parcels could not be sent by V-mail. Most likely, it would be sent by ship, and be at risk from U-boats. There seemed little point buying presents that would arrive months late, if they arrived at all. No, he would write them a letter, instead. It would still arrive too late for Christmas Day, but it would be better than nothing.

"Can I help you, sir?" the man behind the counter asked.

"I'm looking for a pipe for a friend," Bucky said. "And some tobacco to go with it. I'm not a pipe smoker myself, so you'll have to help me out here."

"Of course. If you don't mind me saying, I notice you're American."

"What gave it away, the accent, or the uniform?" He narrowed his eyes at the salesman. "Why, does that make any difference?"

The man smiled. "Not in the slightest, we accept American dollars as well as British crowns. But may I take it that the friend you're purchasing the pipe for is also an American?"

"That's right. Does _that_ make any difference?"

"Perhaps." The man dipped below the counter, then brought out a glass-topped box of display pipes. Bucky's dad would'a been in heaven right about now. "English gentlemen tend to prefer the traditional briar pipes made by Comoy's, here in London. I have, however, had the discerning American customer or two enquire about pipes more familiar back home, and have arranged to have small, regular shipments of Falcon pipes supplied direct from an American source. They haven't yet caught on in popularity amongst my regular customers, but perhaps your American friend would appreciate a touch of the familiar whilst stationed here."

Bucky nodded as he assessed the pipes on display. The Comoy's definitely looked more like his dad's sort of pipe. Very round. Very traditional. Very heavy. The Falcon pipes looked much more stylish. Not that 'stylish' was a word he would necessarily apply to Dugan. But perhaps appearances weren't everything.

"Which is the best?" he asked.

"Between these here on display? They're all from roughly the same quality range, so there's not that much difference between them. And frankly, telling you things about packing and dottle and cake won't mean very much to you, since you're not a pipe smoker yourself."

He realised, now, that he should've paid more attention to his dad's smoking rituals. When he thought of buying a pipe, he'd been so pleased with himself. Imagined himself handing over something Dugan would be happy to smoke from. Now, he pictured giving the wrong sort of pipe. Something ugly, that Dugan hated. How difficult could it be to buy a pipe?!

He cast his mind back to the last pipe Dugan had owned. He'd been so damn proud of winning that pipe… until Wells had won it off him. It hadn't looked much like a Falcon pipe, though. It was one of those old-fashioned types. Probably been in somebody's family for a couple of generations. If Bucky wanted to get Dugan a pipe he knew his friend would like, he had to get him one like the type he'd lost.

Luckily, there was a similar style on display. One of the Comoy's pipes, a little slimmer than his dad's, but a similar shape to Dugan's lost treasure.

"I think he'd like that one," Bucky said, pointing at the pipe in question.

"An excellent choice. One of our more popular Comoy's, it oozes sophistication."

Again, not a word that Bucky would've applied to the mustachioed, arm-wrestling madman, but perhaps some of the pipe's sophistication would rub off on him. One could only hope.

"Can I get some tobacco to go with that?"

"Certainly. We currently stock a hundred and fifteen different varieties, including—"

"Just gimme what the other American customers took." Choosing a pipe had been hard enough, he wasn't gonna spent the rest of his afternoon agonising over damn tobacco when he didn't even smoke the damn stuff.

Ten minutes later, and shockingly poorer, Bucky left the tobacco shop and clutched the package beneath his arm as he made his way back to the _Strand_. Apparently, paper was rationed, too, so he'd had to pay extra to have the thing wrapped. Still, if Dugan enjoyed the gift, it would be worth it. And maybe if he liked it enough, he'd finally stop calling Bucky by fairytale princess names.

Stranger things had happened.

Probably.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The bus deposited Steve a couple of streets from where he needed to be, but the weather was fine, and the walk welcome. He felt out of place in his Army uniform, out here in what passed for quiet suburbia in England, but he had no choice; regs said every serviceman had to wear his uniform when off-base, and he figured he'd pushed his luck a little too much recently to tempt fate again. Besides, the uniform made him seem official, and that was exactly the gravitas he wanted to portray on this 'mission.'

The sprawling houses of Hampstead Heath, each set within their own perfectly ordered grounds, spoke of wealth and refinement. Each driveway held no less than two motorcars, and no two houses were the same size, or shape, or of the same construction materials. The apartment where Steve had lived with his mom could've fit into any of these houses five times over… and probably had room for Bucky's whole house, too! These were the types of houses that had _gardens_ instead of a lawn. Had _drawing rooms_ and _solariums_. Probably had servants, too.

He'd known Peggy had come from a well-to-do family, but until he found the driveway to her house, he hadn't realised exactly _how_ well-to-do they were. Suddenly, the uniform didn't feel enough, and he kicked himself for not bringing Falsworth with him. The major oozed English charm, and Steve suspected Mrs. Carter would respond better to a request like this from one of her fellow countrymen than a stranger, and an American to boot.

But… no. He had to do this alone. To prove to himself that he _could._ Just because he didn't really know what he was doing, didn't mean he couldn't try to do it anyway. If he went running to Bucky—or Falsworth—every time he hit a bump, then this thing with Peggy would never be what he wanted it to be. There would always be someone else hanging over them, waiting to chip in with advice. For better or worse, Steve had to do this alone. He had to give Peggy a hundred percent Steve Rogers… and hope his hundred percent was enough.

Steeling himself, he opened the wrought iron gate, closed it behind him, and set off down the drive. He counted the paces to the front door. _Four. Five. Six_ _… eleven, twelve, thirteen._ Was it an omen that he'd reached the door in thirteen paces? He hoped to God it wasn't, because he could hardly go back and take shorter steps to make it fourteen or fifteen. He was already feeling a little crazy; he didn't need to _look_ it, too.

He paused. Took a deep breath. Rang the doorbell. Waited. Tried not to count the passing seconds. Counted them anyway, until he reached thirty-three, and the door clicked open. Probably took the people inside a while to trek across the whole house and reach the door.

When a face peered around the opening door, he didn't need to be told this was Peggy's mother; he could see the family resemblance. Mrs. Carter's hair was greying around the temples, and she was a little more filled out than her daughter, but there was no mistaking those eyes, that dark hair or the pouting red lips.

"Yes? Can I help you?" the woman asked.

When he realised he'd been staring, he removed his hat and tried very hard not to blush. "Mrs. Carter? My name's Captain Steve Rogers, and I'm with the Strategic Scientific Reserve."

The colour drained from her face as her hand came up to her mouth. "Oh God, Peggy, is she—"

"What? No! Peggy's great. I mean, she's okay. She's busy at work right now, and she… doesn't know I'm here. I'm sorry if I worried you."

At last, a little colour returned to her cheeks. Steve promised himself that, one day, he would stop putting his foot in his mouth. He should'a realised what somebody from the SSR turning up on her doorstep without Peggy would've looked like.

Mrs. Carter regained a little composure, but her eyes were still wide with shock, and Steve suspected she would benefit from a comfortable chair and a glass of water.

"May I come in, Mrs. Carter? I was hoping to ask a favour of a somewhat personal nature. Perhaps you'd allow me to make you a cup of tea, after the fright I gave you?"

"Yes, of course, where are my manners? Please do come in. Any colleague of Peggy's is welcome in this house."

Steve made sure to wipe his feet on the doormat before stepping into the house. The last thing he needed was to track dirt across the pristine beige carpet. Just what kinda crazy person put beige carpets in their hallway?!

She took him through the house and into a sitting room with an expansive view of the gardens. This place reminded him of Central Park, back home. An island of peaceful tranquility in the centre of a bustling city. London city centre was less than thirty minutes away by bus, but it might as well have been thirty hours.

"Please make yourself comfortable," said Mrs Carter. Her sweeping hand indicated the wooden-framed sofa. "I'll fetch a pot of tea."

He tried the sofa. It was hard, and the matching armchairs didn't look much better. He'd noticed that about the furniture in the hotel, too. The English seemed to prefer thin upholstery over hard wood frames. It was a far cry from the Barnes household, with its sofa comfortable enough to sleep on, and armchairs so padded that sitting on them was like sinking into marshmallow.

A collection of photographs framed on the mantelpiece caught his attention and drew him towards them. They were family pictures. Most of them showed Mrs. Carter and the man Steve guessed to be Mr. Carter standing arm in arm with two children posing in front of them. Looking at the pictures was like seeing a time-line of Peggy Carter's life. Here she was as a babe in her mom's arms, and over there a toddler propped up by a dark-haired boy who must've been her brother. Then she was an older girl, her hair captured in pigtails, and over there dressed in a school uniform, her hair tamed in a plait.

The last picture in the line was of a greying Mr. and Mrs. Carter posing beside a plain-faced Peggy wearing a respectable dress, with their son beside them, standing proudly in his British Army uniform. They must've known when he put the uniform on that it might be the last thing he ever wore, but they managed to put their fears aside to smile widely for the camera.

The rattle of teacups snapped Steve out of his photographic examination. Mrs. Carter carried a tray into the room, a teapot and two cups sitting atop it. "I hope you don't take sugar," she said. "We don't have any left. I could fetch a little honey from the storeroom, though, if you like."

"Thank you, but I don't like my tea sweetened," he said. In truth, he didn't drink tea at all, but Monty had told him drinking tea was a very important English ritual, and he wasn't about to make any further _faux pas_ with Peggy's mother. He would drink as much tea as was polite.

She poured two cups and handed one to Steve. He felt ridiculous holding the tiny china thing; like Jonathan Swift's _Gulliver_ suddenly thrust into Lilliput. So delicate was the cup that he held it as he would a butterfly, taking great care not to crush it. The tea itself was bitter to the taste, but not as bitter as coffee without milk. Even before his mom had died, times had been lean. Milk was better used in oatmeal than coffee, so they often went without.

"So, Captain Rogers, what brings you all the way to Hampstead Heath?"

He put his cup down. While he was still getting used to limiting his newfound strength, he had to concentrate on it. Couldn't afford to let one stray thought cause his fingers to tense and shatter the cup.

"As you know, it's nearly Christmas, and I wanted to do something special for Pe—for Agent Carter. Before I became a soldier, I was an artist. I've heard that Peggy used to have a little dog that she loved very much, and so I thought if I could find a picture of the dog, I might be able to draw it and frame it for her." Mrs. Carter gave him the strangest of looks. He quickly ran his hand through his hair, and then smoothed it down. "I know it might sound crazy, me drawing a picture of somebody's childhood dog, but your daughter doesn't strike me as somebody who puts much stock in token gifts, and the rationing system being what it is right now, I don't think I could find anything that she'd truly enjoy."

"I think I do have a photograph of that dog," Mrs. Carter said at last. "I'll go and fetch my album, and we can see if the picture's usable."

She was only gone for a few minutes, and when she returned, she carried a hefty looking tome clasped to her chest. Steve made some room on the table so she could put it down.

"Is that your husband?" he asked, gesturing to a photo that was similar in composition to the ones on the mantelpiece.

"Yes. Harrison works for the War Office." She sighed and turned the page. "In hindsight, I suppose I shouldn't have been so surprised that Peggy joined the SSR. She always had a nose for adventure, even as a little girl. Ah, here we are."

The picture she pointed at was exactly what Steve was looking for. In fact, it was better. It showed Peggy and her brother sitting with the dog between them. It was Christmas, and they sat beneath a grand spruce tree, a stack of presents around them. A happier time, before war had torn their family apart.

"Peggy loved that dog," said Mrs. Carter, removing the photograph from beneath the protective film. "It broke her heart to leave him behind when she went to boarding school." She held the photo out to him. "You may borrow this, but I'd appreciate its return once you're finished."

Steve accepted the picture and carefully stored it within his jacket's inner breast pocket. "I will make sure this gets back to you. I promise." He glanced down and spotted an empty space in the album's pages. "You have a couple of photos missing?"

"Oh, those were of Peggy and Fred. She made me remove all pictures of him after she broke off her engagement to him."

The world spun around Steve as he sat staring at the album. "Engagement? Fred?" Surely he'd misheard. Surely Peggy would've mentioned it if she'd been engaged to somebody in the past. Wouldn't she?

"Fool girl was so full of grief over Michael that she ran away from her promises, straight into the open arms of the SSR." Mrs. Carter shook her head and closed the album before looking up to Steve's face. "She should've married. Settled down. Started a family. Instead, she let Michael fill her head with thoughts of war and espionage, and took up his cause in some silly attempt to honour his memory."

Steve sat a little taller, and used a little of the gentle force that'd been so effective against Private Lorraine. "Your daughter is making a difference, Mrs. Carter. She's saving lives." And she was the bravest, most talented woman he'd ever met. He wasn't going to let _anybody_ disparage her choices, not even her own mother.

"She was saving lives at Bletchley," Mrs. Carter countered. "Every code she cracked saved thousands. Possibly hundreds of thousands. There is more to war than carrying a gun on the battlefield. I've already lost my son in combat; I don't want to lose my daughter, too."

"I can't speak for Peggy's motives in joining the SSR. But I joined the Army because I wanted to keep people safe. I don't have much in the way of real family back home. Dad died in the Great War, and Mom a few years ago from TB. But the family and friends I _do_ have, I'm going to protect with my life. If I was in her position, I know I wouldn't be able to live with myself if the war was lost and my family harmed. I'd always wonder if I could've done more. And I think it's better to fight, than to live with that uncertainty."

"The war has already taken my son, Captain Rogers. It doesn't need to take my daughter. And nobody, not even that dreadful Colonel Phillips who fills her head with nonsense and sends her running towards danger, can promise me that she'll come home after this is done."

What could he say? She was right. But that didn't make Peggy wrong for what she was doing. As good as she may have been at breaking codes, she was an excellent agent, and she was changing the world for the better. Besides, marriage? Children? She'd never given any indication that she wanted those things.

 _She_ _'d never mentioned that she'd once loved someone so much that she'd gotten engaged._ Had she looked at 'Fred' the way Steve sometimes caught her looking at him? Had she smiled at him, encouraged him, made him feel like the luckiest man in the world with a mere glance of her eyes?

 _Had she gone dancing with him? Had there been_ _… fondue?_

No, that was stupid. And it was none of his business. Peggy's life had not started when Steve Rogers wheezed his way into her sight. Before him, she'd been a woman with her own mind and her own heart. She had the right to love whomever she chose.

"All I know is," he said, conscious of Mrs. Carter's expectant wait, "while men like Hitler are out there, free to direct their armies, nowhere is safe. Not the front lines, not here, not even the streets of New York." _Not even the most secret of SSR installations._ "We're all in danger, Mrs. Carter. Personally, I'd rather face that danger with a gun in my hands and a half-dozen brave men beside me. There's no honour in war, but I can find some in the knowledge that any sacrifices I'm asked to make will help the world become a safer, freer place."

Her expression softened momentarily, something like gratitude or pride slipping through the cracks in her stern mask. "You sound like just like Michael."

"I take that as the greatest compliment anybody could ever pay me. And I thank you, for the photograph. I hope I can do it justice."

She showed him to the door and wished him well. Before he'd even made it halfway up the drive, she called after him.

"Captain Rogers? I am truly proud of what Peggy is doing. I can't tell her that, of course—she might take it as approval of the dangers she undertakes. But I'm glad she has grown into a woman who can stand on her own two feet. That's all any mother could ever ask for."

Steve nodded in understanding. He just wished it wasn't so hard for her to tell her daughter these things. He knew better than anyone how important it was to make peace with your loved ones while you still had the chance.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The _Fiddle_ was closed on Christmas Day, but the _Strand_ _'s_ manager allowed Steve and his team to take over one of the private function rooms for their own celebrations. Because of the rationing on wood, they weren't able to get a Christmas tree, so they instead decorated a coat-stand with baubles and tinsel that Dernier had somehow scrounged up on the black market. Morita donated a few candle ends that he'd been storing for a rainy day, Monty brought out some of his dwindling supply of tea, and Dugan's contribution was a hearty meal of PB &J sandwiches. Bucky and Jones had put themselves in charge of entertainment, and they produced a gramophone and several records; the team ushered in Christmas to Glenn Miller, which was pretty traditional as far as the Barnes family were concerned.

Steve paced in front of the window, his super-hearing strained for a pair of heels clicking their way down the corridor. He'd invited Peggy to join them, which had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, he wished he'd met her privately. All of the Secret Santa presents were piled beneath the coat-stand-tree, including the framed picture that Steve had put the finishing touches on last night and wrapped as neatly as he could in brown paper. He'd invited her to help her feel like part of the team, only realising after he'd made the offer that he'd have to deal with the public fallout of her potentially hating the drawing he'd made for her. What if it made her cry? Mom had often cried over thoughts of Dad. What if seeing Michael and the dog made Peggy break down in front of the others? She definitely wouldn't appreciate that.

A hand slapping his shoulder made him jump out of his skin. A nefarious Bucky-chuckle swiftly followed.

"Bit jumpy, pal."

"I just hope she likes it," he replied, his gaze betraying him as it wandered over to the wrapped frame.

"Of course she'll like it, it's amazing! You're a great artist, Steve. If you ask me, your talents are wasted as a soldier."

Steve could feel his ears turn pink at the high praise. It was true that the picture was one of the best works he'd ever done, but that didn't mean Peggy would like it. Perhaps he should've gone for something less personal after all.

Too late. He heard the click of heels. Could already picture her striding towards the function room door. Could practically smell her perfume. It wasn't as if he could even switch the labels with the present he'd brought for Bucky, because just what the heck would _Bucky_ do with a picture of Peggy as a child?

Bucky nudged him forward, and Steve floated dream-like towards the door. He opened it at just the right moment to surprise her; the shock faded quickly from her eyes, and just as Steve opened his mouth to speak, she said, "I'm so sorry. When I told him where I was going, he insisted on coming along."

"Who—"

"Are those PB&J?" asked Howard Stark. He hovered behind Peggy, peering over her shoulder at the tray of sandwiches. Before anybody could respond, he pushed his way past and made a beeline for the food.

"Oh." Steve couldn't help the flat despondency of his voice.

"I would've told him that I was going out to meet some girl-friends for Christmas," Peggy explained, "but that probably would've made him even _more_ determined to come with me."

"It's okay. If I'd known, we could've arranged a Secret Santa gift for him."

"What would you buy for the man whose only wish for Christmas this year is a _particle accelerator_?"

"A 1941 edition Elvgren Girls calendar." Bucky stepped into the conversation and gave an appreciative smile for Agent Carter's dress. Only then did Steve realise it was the same one she'd worn that night at the _Fiddle_. The one that'd turned heads. The one in which she'd mentioned dancing.

Steve's mouth went dry at the thought.

"That's what you buy the man who has everything," Bucky summed up.

Peggy rolled her eyes. "At any rate, Howard will hopefully be distracted by the first pretty girl walking past the window and will find some alternative way to entertain himself."

"Captain, should we get this show on the road?" asked Monty. "I can't speak for the others, but I'm itching to find out what fine gift my Secret Santa has brought along for me."

"Sure. Bucky, since this was your idea, why don't you do the honours and go first?"

"And I want everyone to open their gifts slowly," said Freddie. He held up his camera. "I need to get some good reaction shots. Don't worry, these won't go to the brass, it's just for posterity."

"Okay," said Bucky. He made his way to the would-be tree and picked up the present labelled for Dugan. "Merry Christmas, you arm-wrestling lunatic."

Freddie managed to get his shot as Dugan tore through the paper, capturing Dugan's grin as the big man held up a box with a pipe in it and an accompanying pouchful of pipe tobacco. "Why thanks, Mrs. Claus, you shouldn't have!" He ran his fingers over the pipe and stuck the end in his mouth. "This is even better than my last one!"

In the end, everybody was happy with their gifts. Monty got a box of tea from Morita, which he said was 'very well thought out.' For Freddie there was a personal photo album and a tube of lens-cleaning solution. Jones got a collection of Dixieland records, which he insisted on playing as the rest of the team opened their presents. Morita came away with a selection of English chocolates and a brand new hard-cover edition of a book Steve hadn't even heard of, and Dernier got a new writing set, including a silver-nibbed pen. Steve didn't need to be handed his present by Dernier to know that the gift was from the Frenchman. Nobody else would've got him a selection of strange cheeses and a bottle of something red and French-sounding. For a moment, Steve wondered if he was being punished; then Peggy complimented the gift and told Dernier how much she liked French brie. Suddenly, a world of possibilities opened up to him.

By comparison, the gifts Steve had got for Bucky and Peggy seemed underwhelming. He wished he could go back and do it over, to get additional gifts, but it was too late. And he couldn't stall any longer. Only two presents remained. Time to bite the bullet, and hope that if Peggy didn't like her gift, he could make it up to her in brie.

"And here's mine, for the organiser of our Secret Santa," said Steve, collecting the present he'd left beneath the coat-stand-tree earlier and handing it over to his best friend. "Merry Christmas, Buck."

Right then, Bucky proved that although the war had changed him, it hadn't changed him _too much._ Instead of tearing into the present, he sat with it in his hands, feeling the weight of it, letting the suspense build. Just like he did every Christmas, ever since he was a little kid. And finally, when the anticipation had built, he carefully removed the layer of protective paper to reveal the heart of the gift. The leather-bound journal was the best Steve had been able to buy.

"I'm speechless," said Bucky, opening the journal to its first blank page. "But as soon as I find words, I'll be sure to write them down."

"I bet they go something like, 'Dear diary, last night I drank a lot of whisky and today I stayed in bed till two in the afternoon,'" Dugan joked.

The others laughed, and started coming up with their own fake Bucky-diary-entries. As hilarity ensued, Steve sidled up to his friend, to explain his gift more quietly.

"I know you've got a lot on your mind, and you don't wanna talk about it, but I figured maybe it would help if you could write some of it down. You know, get out whatever's on your chest. Or, you know, you could write anything. Stories. Ideas. Whatever takes your fancy."

Bucky smiled, and for a moment, the past six months fell away from him. "Thanks, pal. I think I'm gonna fill this journal with only the good things. Then one day, I can show it to my kids, and even when I'm gone, they'll have reason to be proud of their old man."

Steve blinked away his tears. Growing up, such a book written by his own dad would've been his greatest treasure. Trust Bucky to think of something like that.

"Of course," Bucky continued, his jovial tone slicing through the poignancy of the moment, "I'm also gonna include a lot of embarrassing stories about when we were kids. Then they can have a good ol' laugh at their Uncle Steve."

"I look forward to hearing those stories, too," Steve assured him.

"Oh, before I forget, I got a present for you." Bucky reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wrapped package, no bigger than the palm of his hand.

"Did you just break the rules of Secret Santa?" he asked, faking an aghast expression.

"Yeah, but I wanted to get you something. I saw this and it seemed ideal, so…"

"Bucky, you shouldn't have. Really." Guilt niggled his stomach. He should'a got Bucky something else. Should'a known his best friend wasn't gonna break years' worth of tradition by _not_ getting him a Christmas gift.

Bucky merely shrugged, and pressed the gift into his hand. When Steve tore off the paper, he found a plain box, and inside the box was a fine new compass.

"I saw the state of the thing you were using when you rescued your future team-mates from Krausberg," Bucky explained. He gave Steve a friendly nudge on the arm, but the smile on his face didn't quite reach his eyes. "Figured that rusty old compass was the reason it took you so long. Besides, every soldier needs a dependable compass to help him get back home after each mission."

 _Home_. His apartment in New York hadn't felt like home since his Mom died. He'd spent more time at the Barnes' house… but that didn't feel like home, either. Even though the family did everything they could to make him feel welcome, he still felt like an outsider. In fact, here, with his team, was the most 'at home' he'd felt in a long time. Maybe that was the point. Maybe _home_ wasn't the place you rested your head at nights; maybe it was the people you rested your head _with_.

He pocketed the compass. "Thank you, Buck. I couldn't have asked for a better gift."

"Glad you like it. But don't you have one last present to give?" his friend prompted.

"Of course. Umm, Agent Carter, this last one is for you." He picked it up and handed it over. Dugan elbowed Jones and Dernier, and an expectant hush fell over the room. The guys had all seen the drawing, because Bucky had a big mouth on him and had dragged each of them into Steve's room to pass judgement. They were all dying to see Peggy's reaction.

Her surprise was genuine, and she was momentarily flustered. Like a good soldier, she covered her surprise well. "For me? But I wasn't expecting an exchange of gifts, otherwise I would've brought something to the party."

"It's not an official present," he told her. "Just something I wanted to do. For you. For… um… as a token of my… ah… well, you'll see."

A half-dozen necks craned as Peggy slowly tore open the paper. Even Stark stood motionless, a PB&J sandwich halfway to his mouth. Freddie lifted his camera, and Steve shook his head at the young man, driving his point home with the finger-across-throat motion. The camera was lowered.

"Oh, Steve!" The wrapping paper fell to the floor as Peggy held up the picture towards the light. "This is wonderful. I knew you could draw, but I had no idea you were such a talented artist! And how on Earth did you manage this with such accuracy?"

"Well, I have your mother to thank for that." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph Mrs. Carter had lent him. "I promised I'd get this back to her."

"I'll make sure she gets it." She took the photograph and pocketed it, then turned back to the drawing. Her eyes shone with what he suspected were unshed tears, and when she spoke again, her voice was shaky. "Thank you, Steve. It's been a long time since I've been able to think of Michael without dwelling on his death. And Picasso is so life-like, it's almost like having him sitting in front of me again."

"Well, I hereby declare this Secret Santa business a success," said Stark. He'd abandoned the sandwiches and taken up a spot by the door. "But before we go letting our hair down, I have a present, too. Something we can all share."

He opened the door, and there was one of the _Strand_ _'s_ staff, holding a large platter before him. When Steve saw what was on the platter, he couldn't help but laugh.

It was a plate of fondue.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

" _Dear Barnes_ , _"_ wrote Danny. Propped up in bed, by the light of the fire, was where he got most of his writing done. It had been a few days since his last letter, and he figured one was now overdue. He had quite a lot he wanted to say, which was always better than the boring recounts of _'milked some goats, churned some milk, waded through snow, chopped some vegetables, heated snow for washing'_ that otherwise filled his days.

" _Well, it's December 25th. I guess that means you and the fellas from the 107th have spent the day exchanging presents and then gambling them away. I wish I could be there. I wish I was a part of it. I feel like I'm missing out, even though I'm so much safer and warmer and drier where I am right now. And the bed. Don't even get me started on what it's like to sleep in a real bed._

" _You wouldn't believe what these crazy Italians are like. They don't open presents on Christmas Day. They don't even open presents on Christmas Eve, like some odd folks do. No, they wait until January 6th. Why? Something to do with Epiphany. Here, kids aren't visited by Santa Claus, but by some good witch called… hell, I don't even remember. It's not like it's important. It's not like it's real."_

He stopped to re-position the paper on his knee. Though his arm was fixed enough to allow him to write, doing so for long periods of time made his hand start to cramp up. How very out of practise he was! It didn't help that the words he'd written were wobbling around the page, either.

" _On the other hand, Christmas here lasts for approximately three weeks, and Christmas Day involves a lot of food. A_ lot _. And rather a lot of alcohol, even though Rosa doesn_ _'t normally allow alcohol in the house. And the darnedest thing happened earlier today. A group of travelling musicians came into town. I didn't think anybody travelled far in winter, but apparently these guys had come from the next village to spread the musical traditions. It was all very strange, especially compared to the sedate cheer of New York._

" _We exchanged 'stockings' today, which is basically just small treats in a sock. Nuts and candies and fruits and such. Rosa made a cake called panettone which is kinda like Christmas pudding except with the consistency of some strange bread/cake mixture, and with decidedly more citrus. It was pretty nice. Matteo still hates me, but I've been doing odd jobs around the village for money, and I've managed to get enough to buy everybody in the family a present. I've got Matteo a nice pearl-handled knife, so maybe he'll like me a little bit more after that. Or maybe he'll just stab me with it. Hard to say._

" _On the mixed-news front, I think Adalina is really starting to fall for me. I try to discourage her, and she thinks I'm being sweet and chivalrous. Clearly she does not know me as well as she thinks, because as you know, I am neither of those things. But how can I let her down without hurting her feelings? She knows I don't have a dame waiting back home. She knows she's pretty, and she knows I do like her. According to the laws of common sense and biology, I should be falling head over heels in love with her. And I wish I could, I really do. But I must be more sick in the head than I ever imagined possible, because when I close my eyes, you're still the only one I see. I've wondered before if maybe you're just a phase, but now I'm not so sure. If that were true, then surely I should forget about you, over time and distance? Surely the emptiness in the pit of my stomach shouldn't grow larger the longer we're apart… should it?_

" _I have no idea how you'd even react to any of this. Probably with a great deal of understanding and patience, because that's just what you do. And that's also why I write these letters. Because even if you were here, I could never tell you any of this for real. I couldn't heap my crap on you. Not this sort of crap. You're too good for that. You deserve more than my maudlin wallowing. You deserve that flock of grandchildren I told you about. You deserve a family, and a life. You deserve to live an uncomplicated existence._

" _So. I'm not there. But this is my Christmas gift to you. Even if our paths one day cross again, you'll never learn any of this. I'll keep my complicated, broken, inappropriate feelings to myself, and I'll help you to live the life you deserve. I know it's not much of a gift, but it's the best I can do. I've never really thought of living my life to do right by other people, but perhaps I can at least do right by you._

" _Merry Christmas, wherever you are._

" _Love—"_ He quickly crossed the word out, and replaced it with, _"Platonically, Wells."_

Finished with his letter, he re-read it a couple of times, then sighed at his own pathetic confessions. "You, Daniel Wells, have reached Carrot-esque levels of patsy. In fact, you've surpassed that level, because at least Carrot did right and found himself a pretty dame to love."

He crumpled up the letter and tossed it into the fire, watching until the very last corner had burnt to a cinder. Perhaps he ought to stop discouraging Adalina. After all, she was a pretty girl, and smart to boot. A guy could do a lot worse. Maybe he didn't have to go back, once the snow cleared. After all, what was back there for him? A court-martial for going AWOL, or a blue-discharge for caring too much for his friend. Either way, he'd be shipped back home in disgrace.

But here… here he could have a good life. He could learn a trade. Settle down with Adalina. She'd take over her mother's cheese business, one day. Or maybe they could travel. She'd love to see Rome and Milan. He could easily find work as an accountant in a big city. He could have a comfortable life.

But… he wouldn't be Danny Wells anymore. Very likely, he'd been declared dead. His family wouldn't miss him, and his friends had probably already finished mourning him and had gone on with their lives. If he didn't go back, he couldn't be Danny Wells anymore, but he also didn't know how to be anyone else. He'd tried being Pierre, but being permanently French just wasn't working out.

He nestled down beneath his blankets and tried to put all thoughts of staying or going out of his mind. Right now, with the snow drifting up to knee-height, he wasn't going anywhere. There would be time to make plans later, once the season changed. In the spring, he could decide who and what he wanted to be.

* * *

 _Author's note: Sorry for the lack of chapter last Sunday; I've been having technical problems. I haven't been able to fix them yet, but I've got a tedious work-around that will suffice for now._


	88. Agent 24

We Were Soldiers

 _88\. Agent 24_

When Bucky heard that the English called _The Feast of Saint Stephen_ , "Boxing Day", his immediate thought was that it would be good to blow off a little steam. After the present-opening, he invited Steve to go a few rounds in the morning, and Steve—his dewy-eyed gaze focused on Agent Carter with a deep expression of rapture—mumbled distracted promises that he definitely wanted to do… what was it? Oh, boxing, yes. He could do that. Sure.

It was only later that evening, after Morita and Dernier were carrying Jones up to his room, that Monty explained how the Boxing Day tradition did not involve men donning their gloves and duking their way back to sobriety, but instead harked back to some boring cultural blah blah blah. Bucky's hopes of starting up an unofficial boxing club for enlisted men and officers alike was cruelly dashed on the shores of reality, and his estimation of the English fell.

What the Brits called _Boxing Day_ , Colonel Phillips called _Getting Back To Work Day_. He summoned, via a depressingly chipper Agent Carter, the Howling Commandos to his office at eight-thirty in the morning, and had them line up before his desk so he could pass stony-faced judgement over them.

All in all, they weren't in a good way. Steve and Monty, those total brown-nosers, stood rigid to attention. The rest made an effort, but Gabe was still half-drunk, Morita looked like he hadn't shaved in two days, Dernier's shirt was spattered with what looked at first glance like blood but in fact turned out to be a particularly fine _merlot_ , and Dugan, who'd gotten into a fight with the coat-stand in lieu of an actual arm-wrestling opponent, was sporting an impressive shiner. That coat-stand was a formidable foe.

Bucky was unsteady on his feet, but for all the wrong reasons. Christmas had been good. Too good. He should'a known his good luck wouldn't hold. After crawling into bed at two o'clock, he was plunged into a nightmare of the Zola variety. Needles. God, it was always the needles. But this time, Zola went further. He didn't just stick them beneath Bucky's skin; he stuck them into his eyes.

He woke with a scream, body drenched in sweat, shivering and shaking, his heart beating madly against his ribcage so that it sounded like somebody pounding on his bedroom door. He tried to get to the bathroom, because instinct told him to take a hot shower, but his legs trembled so bad when he tried to stand that he didn't make it two steps before collapsing.

There was nothing he could do but lie there in his boxers, hugging himself for warm, his teeth chattering so hard that he feared they'd break against each other. After what felt like an hour, he managed to drag himself inch by inch back to his bed, where he crawled beneath the doona and curled himself into a shivering ball of misery.

The next time he looked at the clock, it was six in the morning. A half-hour later, Steve knocked on his door and asked if he wanted to come downstairs and eat left-overs. Bucky croaked out that he felt too hung-over for food, and Steve swallowed the lie that was fed to him.

By the time Agent Carter came banging on his door, ordering him to report to the Colonel for duty, he'd managed a quick, luke-warm shower, and had found a clean uniform to don. He and the others had made their way towards Whitehall on foot, since no public services were running, and Bucky had stuck close to Gabe, using the other man's hangover as an excuse for his own slow pace. He hated the subterfuge, but pity would be worse. Being frog-marched to a medic would be worse. Being left behind would be worse.

"Men," barked Phillips, snapping Bucky out of his reverie, "if you take a good look at the wall behind me, you will see two important things. One is a picture of the President of the United States of America. The other is a picture of the Statue of Liberty. One is who I fight for. The other is _what_ I fight for. Not all of you are Americans, but that doesn't mean that what you fight for is any different. I expect each and every one of you to give a hundred and ten percent when you're out there in the field, because it's not just freedom you're fighting for, it's to prove rich men in fancy suits wrong about what makes a good soldier. I don't care about skin colour and I don't care about what country you're from, all I care about is that you can get the job done." He ran his gaze over each of them. "So. Are you ready?"

"Yes sir," said Steve, as somebody rammed the iron rode even further up his back. "Just point us in the right direction."

"Hmph." Phillips relaxed back to his chair and gestured to the man waiting at the side of the room. "Mr. Stark?"

Howard Stark strode forward, none the worse for last night's revelry. "A very important colleague of mine, Dr. Per Selvig at the Stockholm University, has a sister who's married to a Norwegian whose brother-in-law is a member of the Norwegian resistance, and he's gotten word back that the Nazis have just set up some new sort of top-secret U-boat factory, not far from their base at Trondheim. Apparently, this factory is in the process of designing a new type of U-boat, one with a greater range and more firepower than the standard model."

"As you know," said Phillips, "German U-boats are a menace to the safe transport of Allied goods and personnel. If the Krauts are designing something new, something bigger and meaner, our ability to cross the Atlantic will be severely hindered. Carter? Tell the men what they're to do about it."

Agent Carter stepped forward, eager as ever to be issuing orders to soldiers. Bucky was sure she got some sorta kick out of it.

"At twenty-hundred hours, you'll leave England on a plane bound for Norway. Once there, you'll make the jump and land on Norwegian soil, where you'll make your way to these co-ordinates." She handed a dossier to Steve. "Memorise them, because everything in that file is classified and doesn't leave this office. We have arranged for you to be met by SOE Agent 24, who will help you to reach this alleged factory, confirm its existence and destroy it."

Steve visibly deflated as he thumbed through the dossier. "So… our mission is to chase down a rumour that 'a friend of a friend of a friend' may or may not have made up? No offence, Sir, Agent Carter, but I thought our team was supposed to be… y'know… elite."

"That's exactly why you're being sent," said Phillips. "We can't mobilise forces based on unsubstantiated intel, but we also can't wait for more accurate recon and intel to reach us—it could be weeks before we hear anything concrete from our operatives in Norway. But we can send a small team, one capable of gathering intel and taking with them enough plastic explosive to put the facility, if it does exist, out of action."

"It does exist, Colonel," Stark rallied. "Dr. Selvig isn't the type of man to overreact about something his sister's husband's brother-in-law might tell him. He's very level-headed. That he's passed this on to me, on unofficial channels no less, tells me that his information is solid, and that he's worried about leaking plans by going through more official lines."

"I've already requested that you be kitted out for Arctic warfare," said Carter. "I'll be overseeing the mission from the ground here, and I'll make sure your extraction plan is in place at the appropriate time." She tapped the dossier in Steve's hands. "You have thirty minutes to study this."

"Why?" asked Falsworth. "What happens in thirty minutes?"

Carter smiled. "We take a road-trip. All SOE drops in Europe are carried out from one of two airfields designed to appear nothing more than working farms. We'll be heading to RAF Tempsford, where some of you will have your first experience of flying. I hope you're ready."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Though Bucky had heard of sea-sickness, he hadn't considered there might be such a thing as air-sickness, too. After watching Dernier throw up into a bucket for over an hour, he was just glad that air-sickness wasn't something _he_ suffered from. At least with sea-sickness, you could go up on deck and get some fresh air. In contrast, the plane's belly, where the Commandos waited for their drop, was stuffy and confined. The smell of vomit was making _everybody_ queasy, even those like Bucky, who travelled well.

Steve stood up and, over the loud drone of the engines, yelled, "Alright, time to switch to CET. We don't want to be late for our rendezvous."

One by one they began tugging their watches from underneath the arms of their heavy winter coats so they could put the time forward by an hour. Bucky was careful not to tug too hard; this was the watch his dad had given him before he'd shipped out. The same one he'd worn during the Great War. Maybe one day, Bucky would pass the watch on to his own son. Hopefully it wouldn't be for the same reason.

The cockpit door opened, and the RAF navigator stuck his head into the bay. "ETA to the first D-Z is five minutes, so get yourselves ready to jump. We don't want to spend any longer than necessary in occupied airspace."

Bucky's stomach began fluttering, just like it had before his first date with Kathy Stiles, back in high school. _Relax, Barnes,_ he told himself. _The date went well, and so will this mission._

Of course, his date hadn't involved jumping out of a moving airplane with a couple of pounds of _Explosive 808_ strapped to his back. Dernier's idea, that. Don't put all your eggs in one basket, especially not when they're _explosive_ eggs. The team were jumping in two groups, separating in case the Germans swooped in. The first group was Steve, Dugan, Morita and Dernier with one payload in his backpack, and the second was Falsworth, Jones, Freddie and Bucky with his own block of plastic. Nobody had forced him to carry the explosive; he'd volunteered. Figured it was the least he could do to start making amends.

As the second group started checking the first group's gear, Falsworth gave them yet another run-down of how and when to deploy their chutes. How to land, how to disengage, how to hide the material so it wasn't easily visible. He was like an over-protective mother hen.

Helmets were fitted. Goggles were pulled into place. Straps were tightened. "Remember," said Falsworth, "when you're falling is when you're at your most vulnerable from enemy attack. Don't pull your chute too early, or you'll widen the window in which you're a target. But if you deploy too late, you'll risk breaking every bone in your legs upon landing."

"Now there's the pep talk we've all been waiting for," Morita scoffed.

"Freddie." The kid glanced up to Steve, his face a shade or two paler than usual. "Are you sure you want to come along? You can still choose to go back with the pilots."

"And miss the Howling Commandos' maiden mission?" He reached behind his back to pat his equipment bag nestled beneath his parachute. "I wouldn't miss this for the world, Mr. Rogers."

"Alright. Just stick close to Bucky, okay?"

"Like glue," Freddie assured him, and Bucky mouthed a sarcastic 'thanks' at Steve.

With impeccable timing, the navigator's head reappeared from the cockpit. "We're almost above the first drop-zone. Time for the first group to make the jump. Good luck, and Godspeed."

It seemed to Bucky that Falsworth opened the door of the plane with more glee than any sane man rightfully ought to show, and he seemed to be the only one relishing the idea of the jump. Morita and Dernier were tight-lipped; Freddie, pale. Gabe's hands were clasped around a string of prayer beads he'd pulled from beneath his collar, and Dugan was strangely silent for once, his gaze fixed on the inner wall of the plane.

"You're up, Captain Rogers," Falsworth shouted over the din of rushing air.

 _Not for much longer,_ thought Bucky. But he didn't say it aloud, because he didn't think this was the right time for shooting his mouth off. Besides, his stomach was doing some rather unpleasant things. He was starting to regret the large meat and potato pie dinner he'd eaten before boarding the plane.

Steve didn't look _thrilled_ about the idea of jumping out of a plane, but he didn't seem afraid of it, either. Then again, he'd already done it once, and with far less training than Falsworth had given them. "I'll see you all at the rendezvous point," he called as he stepped up to the open door. He didn't so much _jump_ as _dive_ , head-first, like a high-diving lunatic. Bucky didn't even have time to wish him a safe landing.

"Dugan, you're up," said Falsworth.

"I nominate Morita to go before me," Dugan offered.

"If it means I don't have to sit here listening to your belly-aching, sure."

As Morita readied himself to jump on Falsworth's command, Bucky wished he could switch places with the other man. Sure, jumping out of a plane was terrifying… but sitting here, dwelling on it, increased the terror ten-fold. He'd been dreading it since boarding the plane, and now he simply wanted to get it over and done with.

Morita disappeared, and was replaced by a very green-faced Dernier. "I feel better on ground," the Frenchman said. He offered them a salute, and then he too jumped on command.

It took Falsworth and Bucky together to haul Dugan to the plane door, and Bucky cursed him all the way in an attempt to inspire him. "C'mon you big pansy, you've baited tanks and fought hand-to-hand with Nazis; this is no different."

"Gravity makes it different," Dugan said. "I'm a big guy, and these parachutes are nothing but silk."

"You're no bigger than Captain Rogers," Falsworth pointed out. "And silk parachutes like these deliver cargo drops heavier than you."

"Dernier and Morita did it," Bucky added. "You're not gonna let a Frenchman and a Jap do one better than you, are you?"

"Yeah, I am."

Falsworth nodded at Bucky, and they gave Dugan a very hard shove backwards. His eyes widened in surprise as he tripped over the doorway, and the last thing Bucky saw was a look of sheer terror on his face. Then, he dropped like a stone, a trailing yell of "WAAAaaaaaahhhh…" borne away by wind into which he fell.

"And that," said Falsworth, "is why I jump last." He glanced around at the pale faces of the men in his group, Bucky included. "I trust nobody else will need pushing?" They all shook their heads. "Good. In that case, Sergeant Barnes, you're up next."

Swallowing his fear, Bucky nodded. The thousand what-ifs that had been plaguing his mind became more clamorous. What if his chute didn't deploy? What if he misjudged and left it too late? What if he hit a tree on the way down? What if he landed in a lake? What if somebody shot at him? What if his chute was pierced? What if he landed hard and the payload in his pack exploded? Dernier had assured him that plastic explosive 808 was nothing like TNT—it wouldn't sweat or explode without a detonator—but what if he was wrong?

God, if only Wells could hear him now. His friend would roll his eyes and take the piss out of Bucky for his paranoid panic. Then he'd come out with some stupid fact about how swift and painless death from impact would be. Here one minute, gone the next. No lingering in agony, like Krausberg.

The thought of that place brought a calm to his mind and gave him a strength he didn't know he possessed. He'd survived Krausberg. He'd survived Zola's experiments. He'd survived the pain and the humiliation and the German opera. In comparison, jumping out of a plane would be easy. And it was something he was doing of his own volition. He was helping Steve. Making a difference. Saving lives. The first step on the road to atonement. He had no right to be afraid. If something went wrong… well, it was nothing less than he deserved. And he'd deal with it.

"I'm ready," he said to Falsworth. And it wasn't a lie. Somewhere in the centre of the storm of fear, he'd found the calm.

"We've reached the second drop-zone," the navigator called back. "We'll see you at the L-Z once your mission's complete. Good luck."

Bucky stepped forward and pulled his goggles down over his eyes. Falsworth made one final check of Bucky's straps, then clapped him on the shoulder. "You're good to go. See you at the rendezvous point."

He nodded. Placed his foot on the lip of the doorway. Took a deep breath. Cold air was already streaming past his face. Too late to go back. Steve was counting on him. Time to go.

When he launched himself forward, he imagined free-falling would be a lot like swimming. That the air would support him like water did. That he could kick his legs and swim through it. In reality, it was nothing like that. The air buffeted him, but it did not support him. He didn't sink through it slowly, he hurtled through it like a blazing comet. The wind raked its icy fingers against him, trying to steal away his helmet and his backpack and his parachute. It stole his breath, too, so that when he exhaled, he struggled to pull more air into his lungs.

Assaulted by the windy thief, he lost track of how long he'd been falling. How many seconds had Falsworth told him to count before pulling his chute cord? He shook his head. Better to deploy the chute too soon than too late. Too soon, and he _might_ be shot at. Too late, and he _would_ be turned into Bucky-pâté on impact.

When he pulled the cord, the chute deployed with all the grace of a tap-dancing elephant. It was lucky he had no breath in his lungs, because he was pretty sure he would've been badly winded by the force of the chute catching the air. But as his slower descent began, he was finally able to breathe again. He gasped in icy-cold air and kept his gaze fixed on the ground.

This being Norway, he'd expected snow, but he hadn't expected it to cover _everything_ in such a uniform white blanket. He saw what he suspected might be a stand of trees, and luckily avoided them, but he had no real control over the direction in which he fell.

Fate, that fickle mistress, was smiling on him for once. As the ground drew near, his chute carried him over an area of unbroken white. Thoughts of crashing into trees or mountains or drowning in a lake fled his mind as the chute deposited him neatly on the even ground.

He sank to his chin in the world's deepest snow drift. Powder snow flooded in like water, trickling down beneath his collar, his sleeves, and into his boots. With a yell of alarm, he tried to wade out, but at that moment his parachute came down on top of him, and the open darkness of the starry sky was replaced by the suffocating darkness of his chute.

Panic began to swell. In his mind's eye, he saw his gravestone. _Bucky Barnes, 1917-1943. Drowned in snow and parachute._ He began to flail, which only caused his chute to tangle further. Terrified, cold and exhausted, he stopped to recover his breath. He closed his eyes, because somehow, the dark of his lids was preferable to the dark of the chute. Inside his chest, his heart and lungs felt ready to explode. The chances of his teammates finding him like this were slim to none. There would be nobody to come and rescue him this time. He was alone.

 _Just breathe_ , he told himself. _Like you said to Wells, back in that collapsed mine. Breathe. You can_ _'t do anything when your head's in a panic._

So, he breathed. It helped to imagine that cave, because it had been warm, and there had been a light source, and he hadn't been alone. _Breathe_ , he told himself. _It isn_ _'t possible to drown in snow. And it's definitely not possible to drown in silk. You're in a pickle, but you'll get yourself out._

Falsworth's instructions came trickling back in along with his calm. Fingers cold even inside his gloves, he fumbled for his knife and eventually managed to pull it from the scabbard at his hip. He pulled off his other glove with his teeth, and in the darkness managed to feel his way to the chute cords. After slicing through them, he put his knife away, put his glove back on—because Carter had told them stories of frostbite so horrible that Bucky was wearing three pairs of underpants—and began to pull the pile of silk to one side.

Eventually, his slow work paid off, and the sight of the stars twinkling brightly greeted him from above. The used chute was no longer such a formidable foe, and in fact, it helped him to work his way out of the drift. His flailing with no purchase had been an exercise in futility, but the pile of silk helped spread his body weight and gave him something to flounder out on.

At last he was free of both snow and silk, and he stood panting a few dozen feet away. How long he'd been stuck in there he had no idea, but it was time to make for the rendezvous point and hope he could find the rest of his group along the way. His concern was especially great for Freddie. Carter had given the kid some basic combat training, but he carried a camera instead of a gun. Said carrying a gun would only make him a target. Bucky didn't bother pointing out that to HYDRA, pretty much everybody was a target whether they were armed or not.

After consulting his compass and map, he set off in the direction of the stand of trees he'd passed during his descent. All his life, he thought he'd known snow. Sometimes it drifted to a height of a few inches, sometimes even a foot, in New York. There were times when it had been difficult to discern street from sidewalk… at least, until the men had come out armed with shovels to clear paths for people to walk down.

Out here, there were no streets. No sidewalks. No men armed with shovels. Just an empty expanse of trees and snow so virgin that after Bucky had waded through it, he was certain no other path would cross his before it melted. And wade through it he did, his legs stiff, his arms swinging to give himself momentum. It was like wading through treacle; frozen, powdery treacle, and it made his legs ache badly.

As he approached the trees, he heard someone… or something. It was a sort of heavy pant, kinda like the huff of the grizzly bear he'd seen in the Brooklyn Zoo when he'd gone on a school field trip.

He reached for his sidearm, groping with numb fingers. Did Norway have grizzly bears? Would a sidearm stop a hungry grizzly? Maybe if he aimed real well and made his shot count. He didn't _want_ to kill an animal, but if it was a choice between shooting a grizzly or being eaten by a gizzly, he would pick the former every time.

A shambling form emerged from the woods, but it wasn't a grizzly bear; it was Gabe, his winter hood pulled tight around his face. When he saw Bucky, he waved.

"Hey," said Bucky, stowing his pistol and hurrying over. "How was your landing?"

"Terrible," Gabe admitted. "I hit a tree and was stuck flailing for fifteen minutes. I bet I looked a right sight."

"I landed in the mother of all snow-drifts and almost got buried by snow and my chute," Bucky admitted. Somehow, knowing Gabe had looked just as foolish as him made his own inelegance okay.

"I bet Monty executed a perfect landing. We'll probably hear about it for days."

"Speaking of, have you seen Monty? Or Freddie?"

Gabe shook his head. "Thought I caught a glimpse of another chute passing overhead as I came down, but I was spinning out of control at the time, so I've no idea who it was or where he landed. Guess we'll just have to meet up at the rendezvous point. Don't wanna be late for the party, right?"

"Right."

At first they waded side by side through the snow, but Bucky soon realised it would be faster for one person to carve a path and the other to follow. They took turns at taking point, and whoever followed, navigated. After an hour of intense wading, during which time Bucky started to sweat despite the sub-zero temperatures, they closed in on the rendezvous point.

The rendezvous location had been set in an area sparsely populated with evergreen trees. The smell of pine sap brought back memories of southern France, and a much warmer time and place. But these weren't the bare-trunked, sun-scorched pine trees of France; they were Norwegian Spruce, towering and thick with needle-rich branches. Their cones were almost as long as Bucky's hand, and as hard as rocks when he picked one up and hefted it.

Steve's team were standing in a cluster at the rendezvous point, though there was no sign of Monty or Freddie. Dernier had regained his colour, though, and was no longer a shade of sickly green.

"Did you two have any trouble?" Steve asked.

"Nope," said Gabe, with a wink for Bucky.

"Everything went smoothly," Bucky lied. "Has our contact shown yet?"

"No, but we're early," said Steve.

"I hope this contact take us to his secret base," said Morita. He tucked his gloved hands beneath his armpits he spoke through chattering teeth. "His fully heated secret base, with blankets and hot cocoa."

"And cookies," Bucky added.

"C'mon, it's just a little fresh," said Dugan. He slapped Morita on the shoulder, almost sending the shorter man sprawling.

"In California, we call sixty degrees 'fresh.' It must be ten degrees out here."

"In New York, we call that _fresher_ ," Dugan said with a laugh.

Monty and Freddie turned up ten minutes later, the latter with a heartbroken expression on his face. In his hands, he cradled his camera—with its cracked lens.

"I had a bad landing," said Freddie explained, unshed tears in his eyes.

"I'm just glad you're okay," said Steve.

"To be honest, Mr. Rogers, I would've rather broken my leg than my camera."

"Out here, in winter, a broken leg means certain death." The voice came from not far away, and every man in the clearing reached for a weapon as a figure stepped out from behind a nearby tree. How the hell had he managed to sneak up on the group? To sneak up on _Steve_?

"Who are you?" Steve demanded. He looked almost comical in his star-spangled outfit—and how he wasn't freezing his butt off, Bucky couldn't even begin to guess—but there was nothing comical about the pistol he aimed at the stranger. Bucky just hoped Steve would use the gun, if necessary. If not… well, that's what best friends were for.

"I am Agent 24." The man stepped forward, his hands raised to show they were empty. He, too, wore a thick winter jacket, and a woollen hat covered his head, with warm flaps for his ears. It was hard to make out his features, obscured by darkness as they were. His English was clear, though strongly accented. It wasn't all too dissimilar to a German accent. "You must be the SSR."

"That's right," said Steve. "I'm—"

Agent 24 held up his hand. "There will be time for introductions later. First, we must move. Your insertion may not have gone unnoticed."

With a 'follow' gesture, the man turned and led them to a place a short distance away where he'd prepared some meagre supplies. They each had a few mouthfuls of thick, warming soup from a hot flask, and ate some sort of chewy biscuit.

"You must keep up your strength," the man explained. "Out here, weakness and hunger mean—"

"Let me guess: certain death?" Morita asked dryly.

"You catch on quick. Winter takes the slow and the weak."

"I've always preferred summer," Bucky said. Give him the beach over the snow any day. Not that New York had much in the way of sand.

"What're these?" asked Dugan. He was standing by several pairs of long, thin slats. Next to them were sticks with wide, round shapes at one end.

"Skis," said Agent 24. "It is how we will travel to our refuge, and then to our target."

"This isn't our refuge?"

"This is just where I could get the skis dropped off by a friend. We have a way to travel before dawn."

Dernier picked up one of the skis and examined it closely. Both eyebrows came up as he asked, "These skis? Don't look like skis. Should be wider."

"They are cross-country skis, the fastest way to travel over heavy snow." He picked one of the skis and beamed at it proudly. "Skiing is a Scandinavian invention, you know. We have a saying, that Norwegian babies are born with a pair of skis on their feet. The Germans try, but they are too slow to catch us." He passed pairs of skis around, and showed everybody how to fix them to the toe of their boots. "When we go, go in a line, one after the other. It will be easier for those in the back, plus it will stop the Germans from knowing how many are travelling if they come across our tracks. I will lead the way. Stay close enough to see the man in front of you. The nights here are long, and we will not find anybody who gets lost."

Falling behind in the frigid Norwegian countryside was not a pleasant thought. The thought of leaving somebody behind was even less pleasant, so Bucky offered to take up the rear of the procession, and Steve agreed.

Cross country skiing was the strangest thing Bucky had ever done; stranger even than jumping out of a plane. The form of movement felt like a mixture of shuffling and ice-skating, with the long poles—one for each hand—used to propel himself forward. It took a while to get the hang of it, but Agent 24 hadn't been lying; they had a way to travel. After a couple of hours they had a quick rest, but Agent 24 soon had them going again.

When they finally reached their destination, it turned out to be a series of what Agent 24 called 'hides'. They were tent-like structures crafted from interwoven tree branches, and covered with a thick canvas fabric painted white for camouflage. Much like the army's pup-tents, each structure was large enough to house two men.

The most welcome sight, however, was of a cache of frozen steaks which Agent 24 dug out from beneath stone and snow, and a decent sized oil-burning stove. Agent 24 set the steaks on an iron grid above the flames, and the Commandos clustered around the fire to try and warm themselves up.

"So, what should we call you?" Steve finally asked their guide.

"Agent 24."

"You don't have a name?"

"Names are a dangerous thing to use, in my line of work." His blue eyes were full of wary suspicion. "If you must call me something, you can call me Leif. It is not my real name, but it will do."

"Well, Leif, I'm Captain Steve Rogers—and that _is_ my real name." Steve offered his hand, and Leif shook it.

"You are either brave, foolish or a madman, Captain Rogers." His gaze took in Steve's star-spangled uniform. "I pray it is the former."

The rest of the Commandos introduced themselves, then Dugan asked, "How'd you get involved with the SOE?"

"They supplied me with the training and equipment required to sabotage German operations in Norway." The flames of the fire danced in his eyes. It complemented the grim frown on his narrow, pale face. Bucky was surprised at how young the guy actually was; no older than he or Steve. "For three years, my country has been occupied by Nazis. I will do anything, and work with anyone, to drive them out."

"Have you been able to scout out the area of the alleged Nazi factory?" asked Steve.

Leif shook his head. "I was pushed just to meet you on such short notice. I had to cross the border from Sweden, and it is not always an easy task."

"What were you doing in Sweden?"

"Hiding." Leif shrugged, as if it wasn't important. "The Gestapo have been hunting me for almost two years now. Whenever they get too close for comfort, I have myself smuggled into Sweden. As a neutral country, the Germans cannot follow me there. After a few months, I come back with a different disguise and a different identity."

Bucky couldn't imagine the thought of being hunted by the Gestapo. Just the very _idea_ of them made him shiver with fear. They were said to be the worst of the worst. So cruel that even other Germans feared them.

"The meat should be cooked now. After eating, I suggest you all get some rest. The sun will be up in an hour or two, and we can scout out the facility. When night falls again, we can begin our sabotage."

Leif passed around the stakes on battered tin plates, then handed out mismatched knives and forks. Bucky's mouth was already watering with the smell of the meat; how long had it been since he'd last had steak? He couldn't even remember.

He bit into it. It wasn't the succulent slice of cow he'd been expecting. It was tough, and stringy, and the flavour was much stronger than anything he'd experienced before in meat. He wasn't the only one having problems with it.

"This is… erm… unique," said Falsworth. "What is it?"

"Elk," said Leif.

"The hell's an Elk?" asked Bucky.

"Big deer with long, flat antlers, like this." Leif held up both hands, his fingers outstretched, and placed them above his head.

"Oh, you mean a moose," said Dugan. Leif shrugged.

"I think it's great," said Morita. He was already half way through his moose steak. Dernier watched him with an expression of confusion, his own steak barely touched. "You gonna eat that?" Morita asked him.

"Tuck in, everyone," Steve commanded. "We need to keep our strength up."

Easy for him to say: he had a pocketful of Stark's newly invented high-energy bars to snack on. Probably didn't even need to eat moose. But Bucky didn't object aloud. Steve was right. They needed to keep their strength up to accomplish their first real mission together. And hopefully, it would be the first of many.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s Note: SOE Agent 24 was Gunnar Sønsteby, who died in 2012, aged 94. For more information about the Norwegian resistance and Gunnar Sønsteby, please consult your friendly neighbourhood Norwegian._

 _To answer the question of guest user WinterWidow, yes, you'll get some more substantial updates on Wells once the Italian weather gets a little better. I just wanted to remind readers that he's still around, before heading into a bunch of very Commandos-focused chapters._


	89. Shiver

We Were Soldiers

 _89\. Shiver_

Through a pair of binoculars, the world was brought closer. The craggy, snow-covered mountains. The deep green spruce trees. The gated facility outside which several unmarked trucks were parked. The stone bunker was small, but Bucky suspected it extended underground. He passed the binoculars to Leif; Steve didn't seem to need them.

"What is this place?" Steve asked.

"It used to be a storage facility for mining equipment," said Leif. "The mine dried up decades ago; this place hasn't been used since the end of the Great War."

"Well, it's being used now. Are they your people?"

Leif shook his head. "I would know." He peered through the binoculars and was silent for several minutes. "We can't afford to get any closer to perform a near reconnaissance. Our tracks would be too easily seen. How much of this plastic explosive did you bring?"

"Enough to put a serious dent in that building."

"Unless we can collapse the underground shaft, there will be little point in destroying the building's outer shell."

"A small team could get in," said Bucky. "There's an elevator shaft, right?" Leif nodded. "So, a team sends one lot of plastic down the shaft, and then we blow the building right above it. Hopefully, the force of the blast will cause enough damage underground to kill most of the Nazis down there, and by collapsing the entrance we can prevent any survivors and undamaged equipment from being dug out."

"As sound a plan as any," said Leif. "Have you done this before, Sergeant Barnes?"

"Something similar." It was nice to have his suggestions appreciated by someone who did this professionally, so to speak. Especially since before, he'd just been winging it. Nobody had given him a handbook, or special training, on how to sabotage or capture enemy facilities.

"We will come back after dark," said Leif. He turned to face Steve. "You should choose from amongst your men which will form part of the team to infiltrate the building, and which will be in charge of setting the external explosive."

"Alright. Will you lead the way back to camp?"

"Of course."

They strapped on their skis, and Bucky, sensing his friend wanted to talk alone, hung back. When they finally set off, it was side by side, just as if they were strolling down a street back home.

"What's on your mind?" he asked.

"What makes you think I've got something on my mind?"

"Your frown. You always get that that wrinkly forehead look when you've got something on your mind."

"Ever think we've spent too much time together?"

"Why, because I can read your mood from your forehead-wrinkles?" Bucky couldn't help his grin. "Yeah, but Mom could do exactly the same. Now, tell me what's got your stars and stripes underpants in a twist."

Steve squinted into the pale winter sun. "I can see what needs to be done to make this mission a success, but there's one thing I forgot to account for: what to do with prisoners."

"Prisoners?"

"Prisoners are—"

"I know what prisoners are." And poor, innocent Steve still didn't understand that in war, tough decisions had to be made. Sometimes, there could be no prisoners. All Bucky could do was try to phrase it as gently as possible. More gently than Phillips had to him and Wells. Steve was a sensitive soul, and he wouldn't take an instruction to not take prisoners well at all. "It's not like we're in England anymore," he said. "There's not some convenient facility nearby where prisoners could be housed."

"Maybe we could take them back to England with us," Steve mused. And Bucky could see what he was doing. He was looking for some way, any way, to get out of killing.

"The more passengers, the more fuel the plane uses. If we take prisoners, we might not make it back to England." He felt bad as he closed off another escape route, but it had to be done. The sooner Steve was rid of this idea of war being honourable and fair, the easier it would be for him to fight and kill.

"Maybe Leif will have a suggestion," said Steve, grasping for any lifeline within reach. "After all, the Norwegian resistance have to do _something_ with the men they capture, right?"

Bucky bit his tongue. Steve probably had a good idea of what activities were involved in armed resistance, and he probably already knew that it didn't involve very much taking of prisoners. Perhaps this mission would be the eye opener Steve needed. Sooner or later, every new soldier had his dreams of glory dashed upon the shores of reality.

"Hey, Leif," Steve called. "What will you do with any prisoners we take?"

Leif slowed his pace, allowing them both to catch up. When he spoke, his blue eyes were as cold and harsh as ice. "Do not take prisoners. If you bring me prisoners, I will shoot them."

For one brief moment, Steve was shocked into silence. Then, anger began to find its way in. The beginnings of a scowl crept its way along his face. "I won't let you do that."

" _You_ won't let _me_?" Leif asked. If he was angry, it didn't show. His pale face was a blank mask, his voice measured and calm. "You are in _my_ country, Captain Rogers. My country, which is occupied by murderous fascists. Are you familiar with the concept of reprisal? Last year, the people in the village of Telavåg hid two members of _Noris_ _én_ , men I had personally recruited into the SOE, from Nazis. When the Gestapo came to arrest them, a fight broke out, and two Germans were killed. In reprisal, the Gestapo executed or sent to concentration camps every man over the age of fifteen years within the village. They burned every boat in the harbour, reduced every building to rubble, and imprisoned the women and children. Even now, they languish in German cells. And you know the worst thing? My people are _lucky_. Lucky that the Nazis consider our blood 'pure' and our people 'Germanic.' The people of Lidice, in Moravia, were not so lucky. The people of Ležáky were not so lucky. When men like you and I dare strike at our enemy, it is not we who pay the price; it is the innocent men, woman and children who have no means to defend themselves. If you are not comfortable doing what needs to be done, I suggest you put down your weapon, return to your comfortable life in your comfortable country, and await the day when Hitler's reach extends across the Atlantic. Perhaps when it is your own people who pay the price for their freedom, you will be more willing to put aside your lofty morals."

Leif didn't hang around for a response; he resumed his original direction and speed, leaving Bucky and Steve to swallow those harsh words. Finally, Bucky cleared his throat.

"He's right, Steve. Norway is crawling with Nazis. We hand prisoners of war over to civilians, and we'll be signing their death warrants. I've got enough on my conscience already; I can't live with a massacre of innocents as well."

"And if any of the men in that facility surrender?" Steve asked, his jaw clenched so tight that the tendons in his neck stood out like ropes. "You expect me to kill men waving a white flag?"

"No. You're better than that. But I'm not."

Nobody did troubled blue eyes like Steve, and right then, they were about as troubled as Bucky had ever seen them. "Don't say that, Buck—"

"Why not? It's true. That's why I'm here. That's why I agreed to join the team. Because I've done things and seen things that you haven't. I've done things and seen things that I don't want you to do and see." Strange, that he should feel some gratitude for the things he'd done with the SSR. The men he'd shot coldly from a distance. The men whose throats he'd cut silently up close. The friends he'd lost and the graves he'd dug. The hard choices he'd made. Without that, he couldn't be here, now, doing it again. Doing it to save Steve from that same pain and heartache. Perhaps, when the war was over, at least one of them could go home without blood on his hands and a head full of nightmares. "And if Colonel Phillips was here, he'd tell you the same thing. You focus on the mission, and let me deal with any mess we leave behind."

"I don't want you to be the sort of man who's okay with killing." Steve's words were so quiet that Bucky had to strain to hear them.

"I _have_ to be the sort of man who's okay with killing," Bucky told him. "Otherwise, I couldn't be a soldier. When I first got out here, I told myself that I was doing it for my family. That I was protecting them. But they deserve more than that. I don't kill for them. I do it because it has to be done. Because we're at war, and it's kill or be killed. If I thought my death would end the war today, I'd go to it gladly. But it won't. So, until the day that I die, I'm going to use every last ounce of my strength to take out as many enemy soldiers as I possibly can. I won't enjoy it. I won't like it. But I'll accept it. It's just what I have to do."

"Don't think that you have to take on everything alone, Buck. We're a team. Not just you and me, but the others, too. Whatever we do, we do as a team."

Bucky gave Steve a not-so-gentle punch on the arm. "I swear, if you say 'one for all, and all for one' I will mock you mercilessly for the rest of the mission."

"I love that novel," Steve said, his thirteen year old self grinning at Bucky from across the years.

"I know. And I understand what you're saying. All I'm saying is, the mission has got to come first. If you, or anyone else on the team, is distracted or concerned about doing things they'd rather not do… it doesn't need to be that way."

"Alright. But I don't want you breaking international law and committing perfidy," Steve warned. "If enemy soldiers surrender to us, I'll take back to England as many as our pilots say is safe to carry. Any we can't take I'll leave here with Leif. What the Norwegian resistance does to its prisoners isn't gonna reflect on your record. Got that?"

Bucky offered a regulation salute. "Sir, yes sir." Steve punched him back for that.

They covered the four miles back to their camp quickly enough on skis. There, the rest of the team were preparing another meal of elk-steak and double-checking their gear before the mission started in earnest. Steve gestured them around the campfire after he, Bucky and Leif had taken off their skis, and they discussed the plan over a meat-rich lunch.

"We'll form two teams," said Steve. He gestured to the map of the area Leif had produced. "Alpha team will consist of myself, Dugan and Dernier. We'll infiltrate the structure, take out any guards, and rig the elevator with a block of plastic. Bravo team—that's Falsworth, Morita and Jones—will follow and set a charge on the external surface of the bunker. Once both charges are set, we'll retreat to a safe distance and detonate both explosives simultaneously.

"Bucky, I'm gonna need you up on that ridge where we performed our recon from, so that you can take out any perimeter forces we may have missed on our way in. The last thing we want is Nazis flanking us."

"You can count on me."

"Where do you want me, boss?" Freddie asked.

"Here, in camp, waiting for us to return."

"Aww, but Captain—"

"But Captain nothing," Steve said, putting Bucky very much in mind of their stern sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Cummings. "From hereon, this is a combat mission, and I don't want you in the middle of anything that might go sideways."

"Can't I at least stay up on the ridge with Sergeant Barnes?"

Steve aimed a questioning look at Bucky, who shook his head. It wasn't that he didn't want the company, but if Freddie was there, he'd see things that kids ought not to see. Let Freddie be a kid for a while longer. It wasn't as if his camera was working anyway.

"The plan is a sound one, and we should begin as soon as it gets dark," said Leif. "Until then, you should all get a few hours of rest. I will keep watch."

They paired off and settled themselves into their two-man pup tents. Bucky paired up with Morita, because he was pretty small, and they hunkered down in their sleeping bags. It felt strange, sleeping through the day—or at least, trying to—and it wasn't as if he even had jet lag to help him along.

"You nervous about the mission?" Morita asked, after a while.

"No." It was the honest truth. After France and Italy, after HYDRA and Krausberg, this felt like the shallow end of the kids' pool. A way of testing the waters after his several week alcohol-heavy convalescence. "You?"

"A little. It's our first real mission together, and I got a lot riding on this succeeding. Who knows, we do enough good, make a name for ourselves, maybe I can find a way to help my folks. Maybe get them out of that internment camp."

"I hope so." Sometimes, he forgot that his fellow Commandos had their own reasons for joining. That they weren't all here out of loyalty to Steve. Not that it made Morita's sentiment any less noble. Whatever happened, and whatever their reasons, they were a team. Together, they would make a difference. Eventually, Bucky could return home with a clear conscience.

At thoughts of home, his hands began to shake. Pins and needles prickled his fingers, so he tucked his hands into his armpits to try and keep them warm. The sooner this mission was over, the sooner they could get back to England. He never thought he'd hear himself say it, but he was actually starting to miss London… just a little.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

" _Hello, Sergeant Barnes." Zola appeared, a face floating above the cold metal table where Bucky lay. "I'm pleased with your progress. Stage three is over, and we can finally proceed to stage four."_

" _Please, no more." Bucky's cries were rasping, desperate pleas to his own ears. "I can't take any more."_

" _Nonsense! Everything we have done in the previous stages has been to prepare you for what comes next. Stage four is the final stage, and once it is complete, we will have what we need to win this war."_

 _The war. Yes, there was a war. America and her allies against_ _… against who? Hitler? Goebbels? A man with a red skull? Did it matter? There was a war to be fought, and Bucky knew that the 'we' Zola spoke of did not include America._

 _Filled with a terrible sense of foreboding, he began to shiver._

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky shivered as cold crept into his body. It wormed beneath his skin, seeping through his muscles and down to his bones. A thousand tiny icicles peppered his skin like pinpricks, and the sound of his teeth chattering was like the rattle of dice inside his own skull. He wasn't just cold, he was weary with it.

"Barnes? Hey, Barnes, c'mon, it's time to get up."

He'd thought his eyes were open to darkness, but it wasn't until he opened them again that he realised they'd been closed. Morita's voice was distant, as if he was shouting across a chasm, and when Bucky's shoulders were shaken, the icicles in his muscles turned to razor-sharp knives. A whimper escaped his lips, one that he couldn't have contained even if he'd wanted to.

"Barnes, are you okay?"

"C—Cold," he managed to stutter. So, so cold. Cold deep inside, like the last of the Earth's warmth had fled, and even shivering was an exercise in futility.

"It could be hypothermia. Hold on!"

There was noise, like the swish of fabric, but he was too far removed to fully understand it. Too deep within himself, within the freezing cavern of his mind, to understand what was happening around him.

A bright flash of light was followed by a pair of hands touching his face. He squinted against the light and just about made out a familiar pair of blue eyes watching him, full of fear and confusion.

 _The mission._

Yes, the mission. He had to get up. Go to work. Nazis to kill, and all that.

"I'm okay," he managed to gasp. "I'm good." But he wasn't. Even as he gave voice to the lie, he knew it for what it was. He was cold to his bones, shivering so violently that his muscles were clenching in spasm. He needed an excuse. Couldn't let Steve and the others know Zola had been here. That the evil scientist had done this to him. That Bucky hadn't fought harder. "Think… think that steak I ate wasn't quite cooked. Food poisoning."

A new voice cut through the pain and the cold, an unfamiliar voice. "This is not like any food poisoning I have seen before."

Bucky wanted to object. To tell the voice that it _was_ food poisoning. Just food poisoning. Nothing out of the ordinary. Could've happened to anyone. But he couldn't get the words out. He was too cold. Too stiff. His mouth wouldn't open and his tongue wouldn't move. Everything was hard and painful. Even staying awake was too difficult. So, he let go. He released his grip on wakefulness, and dropped into a frozen slumber.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Steve had never felt so lost. Bucky was deathly pale, and shivering so bad that the whole tent shook with the force. He didn't think it was food poisoning, but what else could it be? He'd had a lot of illnesses in his life, but none of them had ever looked like _this._ Bucky was so cold that his lips were a pale shade of blue. Whatever was wrong, it must be bad.

Falsworth turned to him, a frown etched onto his face. "Captain, what do you want to do?"

He grasped at the lifeline thrown to him by his second in command. For a moment, faced with the mystery illness plaguing his best friend, he'd been lost. Now, he could remember his purpose. The mission. The bigger picture that Bucky, had he been awake and well, would have reminded him of.

"We continue as planned," he said. "We have a mission to complete. Freddie, will you take care of Bucky?"

"Of course, Mr. Rogers. I'll make sure he's safe. You can count on me."

It was a weight off his shoulders. Whatever was wrong with Bucky, it was clearly beyond the ability of field medicine to cure. Bucky's best chance was for the team to complete the mission and call in the extraction as urgently as possible.

"Keep him as warm as you can," he told the young man. "Pile our sleeping rolls onto him. Build up the fire, and if you can get him to drink warm water, do."

"Don't worry, boss, I know what to do. You just leave it to me and go kick Nazi ass."

Steve nodded. There was no time to lose. "Get ready," he told the team. "We leave in fifteen minutes."

They prepared themselves in the semi-darkness. They'd each brought a sidearm with them, and Leif had supplied them with rifles, which they strapped over their backs to keep their arms free for their ski-poles. The plastic explosives were carefully stashed in backpacks, and everybody strapped on a pair of skis. As soon as they were ready, Steve told Leif to take the team out. He stopped beside Bucky's tent as the rest of the Commandos disappeared into the snowy night.

Bucky wasn't a sickly guy. The few times he'd ever been seriously ill, it had plunged an icy knife of terror into Steve's chest. What if Bucky didn't pull through? What if Steve lost his best friend? This time was no different. In fact, it was worse. This wasn't some New York apartment with a hospital just down the road and a physician to call out on a whim. This was the middle of nowhere, it was so cold that the nearby lake was fully frozen over, and the only medicine the team possessed was what was in their field first aid kits. There was nothing in there to treat food poisoning—if that's what this was—or worse.

In the darkness of the tent, Steve couldn't see his best friend, but he could hear the shallowed, laboured breaths escaping Bucky's lips. You didn't grow up the son of a nurse without learning a thing or two, and he knew that this type of breathing did not bode well. It was a tense and fitful breathing, and just listening to it made Steve feel short of breath and claustrophobic.

A hand came to rest gently on his shoulder, like a leaf upon a boulder. "I'll take care of him, Mr. Rogers," Freddie repeated quietly. "You gotta go be a hero."

Steve didn't feel much like a hero. A hero didn't leave his sick friend behind. But a hero also didn't leave his team to rush into danger while he hung back to take care of the ill. Before him was a rock, and behind him, a hard place. There was no single correct thing to do. Just a choice between the lesser of two evils.

He pulled off his glove and reached out to lay his hand across Bucky's ice-cold forehead. "Hang in there, pal. I gotta go take care of business, then I'm gonna get you home. I'll take you to the nicest hospital with the prettiest nurses. Just hold on."

The mention of pretty nurses failed to stir Bucky. Steve hoped that his mind was off in some pleasant, far-away dream. A dream of sunshine and home. Something warm to hold onto in the cold and the dark.

With his glove back on his hand before the winter air could start to burn, he followed the direction the rest of the team had taken. Urgency lent strength and speed to his serum-enhanced muscles. He cut effortlessly through the snow, as if borne on wings of great need. After only a couple of minutes, he caught up with the rest of the group. They moved at a snail's pace, so slow that they seemed to be barely moving at all. Steve bit his tongue to stop himself calling out to Leif to go faster, hurry up, do better. Leif was just a regular guy. The Commandos were just regular guys. They didn't have Steve's speed, and strength, and stamina, and he knew that they were already going as fast as they could. Leif was pushing them hard… Steve just wished he could push harder.

 _Concentrate, Rogers_ , he told himself. Not an easy feat. Every time his impatience grew, his mind went back to the tent. He knew Freddie would be doing everything he could for Bucky, but thinking of his friend so ill, so helpless… it made the panic in his stomach rise like the incoming tides, ebbing and flowing in waves that he knew would eventually drive him mad.

It was a relief when they finally reached the place where just a few hours ago, Steve, Bucky and Leif had lain observing the Nazi facility. At the time, Bucky had shown no signs of being ill. Could it _truly_ be food poisoning, after all?

He pushed the thought away and turned to address his team. _Concentrate._ The last thing he wanted was more men down. "Alright, we don't have our sharpshooter to cover our backs, but the plan remains the same," he told them.

"I will keep an eye on the perimeter while your teams infiltrate and prepare the explosives," said Leif. "The Nazis will not have chance to surprise us."

"Is everybody clear on what they have to do?"

A round of nod and yessirs met his question. And there, crouched in the snow, he felt a moment of deep pride for how far his team had come in so short a time. Their faces were pinched with cold and tension, but they knew their jobs and weren't afraid to stare death in the face. They were the pride of the free world, and he was going to make sure everybody knew it.

"Alright, then let's go."

Alpha team—Dugan and Dernier—sprang up and followed Steve down the shallow embankment. When a pair of sentries popped their heads above a sandbag foxhole, their guns only a heartbeat behind, Steve didn't hesitate. He opened fire at the same time as the others, and the guards sank back down amidst a spray of red. He would set aside some time, later, to feel bad about the lives he had just taken. But it was something he would do when Bucky was safe and warm in an English hospital, complaining about the quality of the food.

Bravo team—Falsworth, Morita and Jones—took the flanking position. They came at the bunker from the side, and as Steve's skis carried him at speed towards his target, he swiftly lost sight of the second team. Dugan and Dernier spread out beside him, to avoid the trailing snow spray from his swift descent, and if it weren't for the fact that his best friend was lying deathly pale in a tent just scant miles away, Steve could've smiled at the thrill of the approach.

Their first volley of fire had taken away the element of surprise. As Steve's team drew nearer, guards spilled out from the building and into the gated compound. They took up positions behind trucks parked within, and Steve turned swiftly to avoid a storm of bullets. But his plan came to fruition; the guards had only seen Alpha team; Bravo team came at them from the side, and they had no shelter from that. Falsworth, Jones and Morita were all decent shots; in short time, the compound was littered with bodies twitching in their death throes. Something else to feel bad about… later.

The compound gate was locked, and Steve didn't have time to wait for Leif to arrive with the wire cutters. He unclipped his skis from his boots and aimed his hardest kick at the point where the gate locked. He hadn't truly expected it to buckle on the first kick, but he continually underestimated his strength. Buckle it did, with a groan of complaint, the wires bending so that a foot-shaped impression was left behind.

"Well, that's one way of doing it," Dugan said. He patted Dernier's backpack. "Now, what say we go leave our Nazi friends a nice warm gift on this cold night?"

The passing of dozens of soldiers and trucks had compacted the snow in and around the compound. The rest of Steve's team took off their skis, and when Falsworth arrived with the others, they did the same. Steve checked his watch. Almost an hour since they'd left Bucky and Freddie, and it would probably be another hour before they could get back. It might take an hour or two for their extraction plane, and then a two hour journey back to England _at best_. It was time that Bucky may not have.

"We need to do this quick," Steve said. "We no longer have the element of surprise, and the Nazis inside may have radioed for reinforcements."

"You go," said Leif. He hefted his rifle. "I will keep watch."

As their Norwegian guide jogged off around the compound, Steve turned to Falsworth. "Set the explosive in the weakest, most easily exploited spot you can find. Then retreat back to the ridge. We'll be right on your tail."

Falsworth saluted. "Yes, Captain. And good luck."

They crossed the compound and found the door to the facility locked. Steve gave it the ol' boot treatment, but this lock proved sturdier than the compound gates; it took three strong kicks before it reluctantly gave way, and when it did, it collapsed inward with an echoing bang. _Definitely lost the element of surprise._

Inside the facility, the main lights were off. Some form of emergency lighting cast a sickly green light over the equipment in the room. A couple of tables, a cooking area, a small weapons locker… a guard station, Steve realised. The compound's first line of defence in the event of intrusion. Now, it was empty, its occupants growing as cold as the ground on which they'd fallen.

"Looks like they put this place on lock-down." Dugan's whisper was swallowed by the silence.

Steve nodded, then realised Dugan probably couldn't see as well as he could with only emergency lighting to go by. "Yeah. Let's hope whoever's downstairs isn't as prepared. Look for the elevator."

Dernier found it. His call of, "Mes amis!" brought Steve and Dugan jogging. And when Steve reached out to pull the elevator's lever, nothing happened.

"Help me prise this open," said Steve. He inserted the tips of his fingers into the tiny gaps in the elevator doors, and began to pull. Dugan took the other door, and pulled the opposite way. Steve found a new admiration for the Sergeant's strength; he wasn't powered by science, but he was still stronger than any other man Steve had ever met.

The doors squealed open, and a blast of icy air came rushing up to punch both men in the face. Steve peered down the shaft; the elevator was at the bottom. No chance of sending the explosive down in it. But if they dropped the explosive down, would it still work? Would it detonate on impact, killing them all? He knew precious little about explosives, so he posed the question to Dernier.

"Non, non, is fine, all fine," the Frenchman said, waving away Steve's concerns with an air of nonchalance Steve wished he could share. "We throw down, no problem. Get away fine." And with that out of the way, he pulled his pack from his shoulder and made a start on the detonation device.

Peggy had explained it briefly. A simple radio transmitter connected to the detonator, allowing them to trigger the explosion from a hundred metres away. Dangerous enough, out in the open. Down there, in the confines of the elevator shaft and underground access tunnels? He could only imagine the destruction that would be wrought by the fireball. The men who were down there would be burned alive.

"Here," said Dernier. He held up a block of the plastic explosive with the detonator attached. The explosive looked like an innocent block of modelling clay. Hard to believe it could produce a powerful explosive force. "Is ready."

"Would you like to do the honours?" asked Steve.

Dernier bowed and stepped towards the elevator shaft. He bent forward, to drop the explosive down. Only Steve's enhanced hearing gave him warning enough to grab Dernier and pull him back. The sound of footsteps echoing up the shaft was only a split second ahead of the _ratta tatta tat_ of automatic gunfire. Bullets ricocheted off the ceiling, right where Dernier's head had just been.

Pale-faced, the Frenchman wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead as he stared at Steve. "Merci, mon ami. I owe you my life—again!"

"What now?" asked Dugan. His moustache was bristling; a sure sign of irritation in the team's second strongest man. "I take it we can't just toss the explosive down as initially planned?"

Dernier shook his head. "They may disarm detonator before we get to one hundred metres. We must detonate within a few seconds of dropping."

Steve had been afraid Dernier would say that. Bucky had been right, back in Coventry, when he'd lectured Steve about needing to be flexible with his plans. Sometimes, they just didn't work out as anticipated. Sometimes, you needed to think on the fly.

"Show me how this detonator works," Steve said to Dernier.

The Frenchman held up the small device. "Simple. Push green button to arm. Push green again to activate. Or push red button to disarm." He handed it over.

"Thanks. Now, get yourself back to the tree-line as fast as you can. Dugan, I need you to go outside and check with Falsworth that his explosive is in place. If it's not, tell him to hurry it up. If it is, tell him to get his team out of there, and then shout back to me that all's clear. I'll give you all a count of twenty to get as far away as you can. After twenty, I'll drop the explosive, and give myself five seconds to get out before I blow it."

Dugan borrowed one of Bucky's disapproving frowns. "Captain, five seconds ain't long enough for you to get clear. You'll be buried in rubble."

"Five seconds is long enough," Steve assured him. And if it wasn't, it was close enough. He was pretty sure he'd done a hundred metres in five seconds, while chasing down the HYDRA operative in New York. Of course, that had been on well-maintained concrete. In fair weather. No snow involved. Then again, the threat of imminent explosion might be a powerful incentive. "And you can buy me a drink when we get back to London when I prove I'm right."

"But if you're wrong, we'll be burying you in a frozen grave."

Steve reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder. "I'm not wrong. Not about this." If Bucky was willing to do the team's dirty work, then Steve would run the risks. "Now, go carry out your orders. I expect you all at a safe distance by the time I get out there."

Dugan saluted, and Dernier offered another bow. To give them time to carry out their orders, and to stop the Nazis below from getting any ideas about reactivating the elevator and trying to get to the surface, Steve aimed a few half-hearted shots from his pistol down into the shaft. Another heavy volley of automatic fire was the reply; they probably thought they had to prevent Steve and his team from getting down into the main facility and stealing their plans. They didn't know that infiltration wasn't the objective. If they'd known, they wouldn't have tried so hard to keep their aggressors top-side.

"Cap, Monty's team have set their explosive and are retreating back to the trees." Dugan's voice came echoing down the corridor. "But there's something you need to know."

"You can tell me later. Is everyone retreating?"

"Yes, but—"

"Get running, Dugan, I'm about to drop this explosive."

"But Captain—"

"Have we suddenly discovered the Nazis have got hostages down there?"

"No, but—"

"Then my plan's not changing." He fired a few more shots down the elevator shaft, and at the same time, heard the whir of something mechanical come to life. The lights in the facility jumped back up to full intensity, damn near blinding Steve. The Germans had restored power; they were going to try and come up in the elevator! "Dugan, I'm going to give you ten seconds, then I'm dropping this explosive. We're out of time."

Dugan's curses grew quieter as he disappeared out of the base. True to his word, Steve gave him a count of ten. From below, voices shouted out instructions in German, and the gunfire stopped. As soon as he reached ten, Steve dropped the explosive, and he ran as fast as his legs would carry him. Down the corridors, out the front door, and he was halfway towards the compound gates when he reached five.

He didn't dare leave it any longer. It might take only a few seconds for the Germans to separate the explosive from its detonator. He quickly pressed the green button and, still sprinting across the treacherously icy surface, pressed the green button again. His world exploded in a fireball, and he was thrown back into Krausberg all over again.

* * *

 _Author's Note: A thousand apologies for the radio silence over the past couple of weeks. I've been suffering from one of those energy-draining colds, and it's taken me over three weeks to shake it. Please forgive any typos in this chapter; I was still finding them on my third re-read, but my brain's in a fog so I doubt I'll catch any more. Let me know if you do! Thanks for your patience, and I hope you'll tune in next Sunday to find out how Our Heroes are going to get out of this._


	90. Burn

We Were Soldiers

 _90\. Burn_

 _He was aflame, his entire body burning from the inside out. Dead. The world wanted him dead. Time and time again, the fire rose up and tried to consume him. It raced over his skin and deep into his bones, and he knew only one thing: If he could find Steve, everything would be okay. Steve would help him. Steve would know what to do._

 _The forest beckoned, and he ran and he ran. Low branches whipped his face as he raced through the undergrowth, and vines clawed at his legs, trying to bring him down. Tears of frustration spilled from his eyes, and where they rolled down his cheeks they burned so hot that they felt like ice. He shed his tears as he shed the miles, not even knowing whether what he sought was truly there._

 _Whispers came to him, hushed voices borne on an icy wind. They said his name, over and over again._ _"Barnes. Barnes. You're dying… save yourself… on your feet, soldier…" And another voice whispered in tandem, a woman's voice, full of scorn. "At times you act more like little boys than grown men! This isn't a fairytale. It isn't a story. It isn't a game."_

" _I gotta find Steve," he told the voices. "I can't stay here. I gotta find Steve."_

 _His best friend_ _'s voice came through on the wind, quieter than a whisper, little more than a gentle sigh. "I'm right here, pal. Just hang on."_

 _But he didn_ _'t know how to hang on, or what to hang to, so he ran again. If Steve was in this forest, Bucky would find him._

 _Blindly he ran, unable to see past the tears and the trees, only realising he_ _'d reached a sheer cliff when he was already tumbling over it. The world swirled like a vortex, a kaleidoscope of white and green and black, and when he landed it was outside a familiar concrete bunker. The first concrete bunker he'd ever seen. The start of his trial by fire._

 _He stepped towards it, and shadows stepped with him. They were tall as men but dark as night. They stepped when he stepped, stopped when he stopped, watched in silence as if waiting for him to command them._ _"I don't want to do this anymore," he said. "I know who you are, and I already watched you die once. Why can't you just leave? Why can't you rest in peace?"_

 _The shadows said nothing, their faces blank and impassive. Then, one by one, they turned, and walked into the forest. Bucky_ _'s shivering began anew. If they left him, he'd be all alone. Surely the dead were better company than the emptiness of the forest. Better company than his own guilts and regrets._

" _Wait." He shouted the command as he ran after them, but this time, they ignored him. They moved slowly, at their ease, but no matter how fast he ran, he couldn't catch them. Even when he reached out to grab the nearest shadow-soldier, it somehow danced out of reach. Names flitted across his tongue, names of the men he'd commanded and lost. But he held back. He wasn't sure what would happen, if he called them by their names. Maybe if they knew their names and remembered who they were, they would disappear forever._

 _The chase ended at a clearing in which a campfire burned. As soon as the heat from the flames touched his skin, he knew he_ _'d found what he'd been looking for, and he knew he wasn't burning after all; he was freezing cold, colder than he'd ever been in his life. A tree stump beside the fire looked smooth and warm, so he sat down on it and held his hands towards the flames while the shadows watched from the trees. When he looked down behind him, he saw his own shadow stretching out across the leaf-strewn ground, seemingly going on forever._

" _You know… if you want to come closer to the fire, you can use my shadow," he told the shadow-soldiers. "You don't have to stay out in the cold anymore."_

 _They surged forward, running along the edges of his shadow, creeping across his hands, sliding up his arms. He_ _'d expected them to be cold, with a touch like death, but they were as hot as the flames of the fire, and they swarmed over his body before the world erupted in a bright flash of light._

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky's eyelids crept open to a cold white light. He didn't need his vision to know he was in a hospital; the scent of iodine was enough to tell him that. And when he was finally able to fully open his eyes, his suspicions were confirmed. He was in a hospital room, complete with sterile grey tiles and an oversized Steve Rogers dozing in his olive-drab uniform in a chair next to the bed. His head pounded, his throat felt raw and a needle attached to a drip was sticking out the back of his left hand, but at least he was alive. And if Steve was sleeping, that meant Bucky was probably recovering.

How long had it been since… the shadows? He shook his head. No. That hadn't been real. Norway. Norway was real. But judging by the cloudy grey sky he could see outside the window, he wasn't in Norway anymore. This was an English sky if ever he'd seen one.

"What the hell happened?" he croaked with his sandpaper tongue.

It was loud enough to wake Steve, whose blue eyes flew open only a fraction before he was out of his seat and heading towards the open door. He stuck his head out and yelled, "Doctor, he's awake!" He was back at Bucky's bedside before Bucky could even reiterate his question. "It's so good to see you, Buck. You had me worried."

"So I gather. Help me sit up before the docs get here and start trying to take blood." He struggled with his pillow until Steve helped prop it behind his back, then tried to find a comfortable position to lie in. Not an easy feat, with his muscles aching like he'd run a marathon. "How did I get here? What happened in Norway? Did I ruin the mission?"

His questions went unanswered. At that moment, two doctors, one nurse and Howard Stark appeared in the door, and Bucky was assaulted by a mêlée of stethoscopes and thermometers and groping hands. The eldest doctor introduced himself as Hopkins, and asked Bucky how he felt.

"Like I woke up in a hospital room after drinking a pint of sand," Bucky admitted. "What's wrong with me?"

"Amongst other things? A somewhat severe case of malnutrition. You need to start eating properly, Sergeant Barnes."

"But I have! Wait—what 'other things' are we talking about?"

A look passed between the medics. A look that said everything and nothing all at once. It was not a promising look.

"We don't really know," Dr. Hopkins admitted. "Your blood-work is… well, it's… peculiar."

Just the thought of having peculiar blood made Bucky feel cold inside. Why did bad things continually happen to him? Why couldn't something go _right_ for once? In a voice that came out a lot smaller than intended, he asked, "Am I dying?"

"Good heavens, no!" Dr. Hopkins appeared horrified by the very suggestion that one of his patients might be so unwell.

"What he means is," Stark clarified, "probably not. In truth, we've no idea what's wrong with you."

"And you're here _why_?" Bucky asked the inventor. Not that he didn't appreciate Stark's medical input—the guy technically _had_ saved his life during that whole Nurse Green incident, after all—but surely Stark had better things to do than tend to a sick soldier.

Stark stuck his thumb out, indicating the doctors beside him. "They called me in when they couldn't figure out what was wrong with you. I'm still working on it. But in the meantime, I've managed to nurse you back to consciousness. Yay for me. Must be my impeccable bedside manner. And besides, you owe me a two hundred dollar bottle of Scotch. I'm not lettin' you off with that."

"Sergeant Barnes," Hopkins picked up when Stark took a breath, "you really need to start taking better care of yourself. No skipping meals, especially before missions."

"That's what I was drying to tell you, Doc. I don't skip meals. I eat as much as—and sometimes more than—the rest of my team. Good stuff, too, none of that horrible cheese Dernier keeps trying to force on us." Dr. Hopkins expression said he didn't quite believe Bucky's claim, so Bucky turned to his oldest friend for help. "Tell him, Steve!"

Trying to drag assistance outta Steve was like drying to draw blood from a stone. Bucky could tell by the expression on his friend's face that this was as worried as he'd ever been about someone else's health, but at the same time, he just didn't know how to tell a lie.

"It's true, Doctor. Bucky's got a good appetite. Always has. I know for a fact he doesn't skip meals, and he ate the same as us right before and during the mission."

"Which rules out that food poisoning nonsense," said Stark. Bucky gave him the stink-eye, but Stark was too busy examining Bucky's chart at the foot of the bed. "You wouldn't have electrolyte levels like this if you had food poisoning. For now, I want to put you on the same high-protein, high-fat energy bars that Captain Rogers consumes… let's say, three bars per week. Any more than that and we risk turning you into Sergeant Tubby."

"So much for your excellent bedside manner," Bucky scoffed. "What makes you think eating those bars would help me, anyway?"

"Well, if you're eating as much as the rest of your team, then the problem isn't what you're eating, but how much your body's processing. If, for some reason, your body isn't getting as much out of your food as it ought to, then that would account for the malnutrition, which could in turn account for some of your other symptoms, such as muscle spasms and exhaustion. If we can't feasibly increase the _amount_ that you consume, maybe we can increase the _calorie content_. The bars I made for Captain Rogers are designed to fuel a metabolism that burns faster than usual."

"But why am I like this? What's caused my body to not process food like it should?" The hesitant glance that passed between Steve and Stark sent a chill up Bucky's spine, and confirmed one of his worst fears. "Zola. You think that whatever he did to me in Krausberg has messed me up." He'd always known it. Zola had taken pieces out of him, or put pieces in him, or changed him. Krausberg had stayed with him even after he'd got out, not just in his nightmares, but in his body. At some deep level, he was broken.

"We don't know that for sure, Buck." The pity in Steve's troubled blue eyes was too hard to look at, so Bucky fixed his gaze on the ceiling and tried not to let despair creep in and overwhelm him.

"But it's a pretty good bet," said Stark. "But don't worry, we're doing everything we can to figure out what's wrong with you. In the meantime, food and bed-rest is the best medicine I could prescribe. We've already got you on an intravenous solution, but I want you to start your new high-calorie regime right away. I'll head back to my lab and grab you a supply of the bars."

Stark left, and Steve asked the medical staff to give him a moment alone with Bucky. As soon as the door was clocked, he asked, "Y'okay, Buck?"

No. No he wasn't okay. Krausberg had found him all over again. Zola was still sticking his needles under Bucky's skin; he was simply doing it from afar. Bucky was still on that cold metal table, and he probably always would be. But maybe that was his cross to bear. His punishment for holding a gun to his head and trying to rob his family of their son and brother. Maybe he was just going to have to live with the coldness and darkness that now dwelt in his heart.

"Yeah," he said, pulling his gaze from the ceiling, focusing on his friend. It wasn't entirely a lie. Until now, he'd been pretending. Hoping. Putting on a brave face. Fearing the worst. Now, the worst had happened. He'd let Steve and the team down. Zola was still torturing him. The best Bucky could do now was accept that he was broken and try to fight whatever was being done to him. Hopefully he could fight long enough to make Zola and Schmidt pay. "I mean, no. But I will be. I think."

A tidal wave of relief flooded over Steve's face, taking years off him. "You know I'll do whatever we can to help. We all will. The whole team."

"I know. Now, will you tell me what happened in Norway? How'd the mission go down? How'd we get out? How long have we been back? And for Godssake, pull up a chair; it's hurting my neck to look up at you all the time."

"Oh yeah, I forgot how much taller I am now," Steve said, ever his humble self. He dragged the chair over to the side of the bed and settled his overly large frame into the considerably smaller frame. "Well, the first thing you need to know is, the mission was a complete success, so please don't worry that you ruined anything. We went through with the plan with only a minor hiccup—"

"Details on the minor hiccup, please."

"Well…" Steve ran a hand through his hair as his gaze turned inward. "We encountered some resistance inside the facility. I sent the rest of my team out to safety and planned to drop the explosive, give myself a five second count, and blow it once I was clear. What I didn't realise was Falsworth had… improvised. His team set their explosive at the door, then drained some of the fuel from the vehicles and drenched the walls in it. When I blew my explosive, the gasoline ignited and caused the second explosive to detonate prematurely. I got a bit… singed."

Bucky winced in sympathy. "I hope you weren't too badly burned?"

"Not too bad," Steve agreed, though Bucky could tell he was lying. "It mostly got my back, because I was withdrawing at the time. I wasn't so badly hurt that I couldn't make it back to camp under my own steam, but my uniform took quite a beating. That's why I'm back in this." He gestured down at his olive-drab duds. "Stark says he's going to make the next suit flame-retardant. It's probably going to be made entirely of asbestos."

"Did you take any prisoners?"

Steve shook his head, and Bucky sighed quietly in relief. Prisoners had been one of the things Steve had been worrying over. What to do with them. How to handle them. It was a weight off his shoulders, to know that his friend hadn't had to deal with those concerns after all.

"After we got back to camp," Steve continued, "we activated the transponder for our pick-up, and Leif guided us to the landing point. He left us there, said he had to get moving again. We only had to wait for an hour or so for our plane. That was two days ago."

Two days? Jeez, it only felt like two hours! Had Steve been here all that time? Knowing Steve, he probably had. And the fact that he'd actually been sleeping told Bucky that his best friend had probably spent the past two days awake and worrying.

"Any word from Phillips?"

"About you?"

"No, doofus; about our next mission."

Steve got that cagey look about him. The one he always got when he didn't really wanna say what needed to be said. "No." He steeled himself. "He said you've gotta pass a whole bunch of physicals before he'll let you on any more missions."

Figured. Bucky wished he could argue, but in Phillips' position, he'd do exactly the same. You couldn't have a man on the team if he wasn't fit for duty. That was why he'd swapped Wells for Carrot, that day Wells had stabbed himself while juggling knives. Phillips was just doing what was best for the team, and Bucky would just have to do everything he could to get better and show the colonel that he wasn't a liability.

"Then pass physicals I shall," he told Steve. "How's the rest of the team?"

"They're good. Morita finally stopped shivering… yesterday. And I gave Falsworth a couple of days furlough to visit his family. He didn't wanna go, but I ordered him."

"All that power finally going to your head, huh?"

Steve laughed, which made Bucky smile. It was good to see that leadership wasn't a burden to him. However, the laugh only lasted for a minute before it was replaced with the too-familiar frown of worry.

"Look, if you ever want to talk about Krausberg, I'm here. I know you don't like thinking of that place, but Stark believes if you could tell us about what happened, there might be some clue about what Zola was doing to you. It might help with your treatment. Get you on your feet a little faster."

Even before Steve had finished, Bucky was shaking his head. Krausberg was a floodgate he never wanted to open. Once he started talking about the needles and the opera and the fire burning in his veins, he'd have to talk about how he'd broken and tried to kill himself, and how he'd wished others in his place. Stark was pretty damn smart; sooner or later, he'd figure out a way to fix Bucky's problems… his medical problems, at least. But he'd do it without stories of darkness and torture and weakness. Nobody could ever know what had happened on that table.

"I'm pretty sure that all the important bits happened when I was unconscious," he told Steve. "You saw the state of me; I was barely with it even when I was awake." He bit his lower lip as something came back to him. Something that probably wouldn't hurt to tell Steve. Wouldn't hurt for Stark or Phillips to know. Maybe it would finally get Steve off his back. "There is one thing I remember clearly. I wasn't the first person they experimented on. Zola called me 'Subject 36.' And he mentioned something about phases, or stages. Maybe stages of testing. But I guess I blacked out after that."

Steve nodded as he took the information in. He'd probably be repeating it verbatim to Stark and Phillips later, but if it saved Bucky having to tell it again, that was fine. "Alright. Thanks, that might help. I guess it'll mean more to Stark than it does to me. If you think of anything else, let me know."

"I will." Time to deflect the conversation elsewhere. He didn't want to think of Krausberg. That place haunted his nightmares; no point it haunting his waking moments, too. "So, how's Agent Carter."

Steve managed to avoid a blush, but couldn't help the smile creeping across his face. "She's fine. Worried about you."

Bucky snorted. "I doubt it. Or, I doubt she's more worried about me than she is about the rest of the war effort. Anyway, you two set a second date yet?"

"I'm not so sure we've even had a first."

"What about that dinner and wine you had?"

"Does that count as a date?"

Poor, clueless Steve. "Of course it counts as a date!"

"I didn't buy her dinner. She insisted on paying for herself."

"Alright, then it was half a date." Bucky settled back on his bed and his muscles relaxed a little as thoughts of Krausberg faded into the background. Now he was on more familiar territory.

"In that case, I need some ideas for the second half of the first date. What've you got?"

Bucky chuckled as Steve pulled out his notepad and a pencil. It was nice to be able to talk to Steve about dames. In the past, he'd always been interested in the wrong ones; or they hadn't been interested in him. Maybe now, Steve could benefit from a little of Bucky's wisdom. It was only fair, after all.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

An icy wind blew through the courtyard of the _stalag_ , biting harshly at any inch of bare skin it could find. Michael, and the other workers in his detachment, hunched their shoulders, trying to find what little comfort they could in the dirty, stiff collars of their battered Army jackets.

"Captain!"

Lieutenant Cromwell skidded to a halt in the centre of the work detail, and Michael could tell that the pink flush to his cheeks wasn't entirely because of the cold wind. Whatever it was, it must be big. Cromwell wasn't usually given to excitement. That was one of the reasons Michael had picked him for the upcoming mission.

Feigning the need to knuckle his back, he leant against his shovel as he asked, "What is it, Lieutenant?"

"I just got word from Steinberg. He overheard an incoming transmission to the communications room. Our captors are expecting an additional supply of weapons and troops from Warsaw, and they'll be here tonight!"

Michael nodded as his sluggish, cold mind absorbed the information. Nobody knew who their captors were; they spoke German, but didn't wear the same uniforms as the rest of the Nazis. The guards were almost always masked with strange helmets, and the weapons they carried… he'd never seen _anything_ like them before. One hit seemed to vaporise a victim. It was like something out of a fiction book.

Whatever or whoever their captors were, if they were getting reinforcements, it meant the chances of his plan succeeding would be greatly diminished. They would have to bring their schedule forward.

"Is the hole big enough?" he asked.

"Almost. Two of Steinberg's men are working on it now. They say it'll be ready within the hour."

"Good." The hole had to be deep enough to go beneath the electrified fence which ran around the outside of the compound. It had to be wide enough to fit a man. And it had to be concealed after each time it was worked on, to prevent their captors discovering it and filling it in. The work had been done predominantly at night, and it had been covered over by a mesh of fabric, weighted down at the edges and loosely covered with dirt. Even under great scrutiny, it was difficult to spot. So far, Michael and his men had been lucky. They couldn't expect their luck to last any longer. "Do you have the messages?"

Cromwell nodded and patted the breast pocket of his jacket. "All of them."

"And you have enough food?"

"Enough to get me to Krakow. Once I'm there, I can find a way to get more."

"And—"

"My clothes. I know." Cromwell continued with more patience than Michael would've had in his position. "There's a stash down by the river, the best civilian clothing Steinberg could get together. I know the exact spot, and I'll bury my uniform once I find it." A sheepish grin slid across his face. "Don't worry, Captain. I won't be travelling as Lieutenant Andrew Cromwell of the British Army, but as Janusz Nowak skilled tradesman. Steinberg had the falsified papers left with the clothes."

"Then this is it."

"It would seem so."

"All our hopes go with you, Lieutenant." Michael reached out, to rest a hand on his shoulder. "The world believes us dead, Cromwell. Show them they're wrong."

Cromwell saluted, standing as tall as he could manage. After three years of imprisonment in the _stalag_ , it was a wonder he could stand at all. A wonder _any_ of them could stand. Michael didn't know why he and his team had been transferred out of Stalag XX-A on the outskirts of Toruń, but for the past three years, he and his men had laboured for the Germans, mining iron from the deepest quarry Michael had ever seen. When he'd been brought here, thirty three of his men had come with him. Now, they were down to eight. The others had succumbed over the years to harsh treatment and deprivation. Michael and his survivors probably didn't have much work left in them; their ribs were visible beneath paper-thin skin, their collarbones protruding at painfully harsh angles.

Unfortunately, the Germans had no shortage of workers to replace those who perished. It was predominantly Jews who worked in the _stalag_ , and the Germans worked them harder than they did Michael and his men. Hundreds had died, in the years Michael had been there. Only Steinberg and a handful of others, all of them skilled in some way that exempted them from dumb labour, had been there longer. Michael had promised the man that if this plan worked, and if his superiors back home eventually sent a rescue team, he would not leave without the Jewish prisoners. They were the ones who'd done most of the work on the hole, and they were the ones who'd arranged for Cromwell's travel papers and new clothes. They'd risked everything.

Michael resumed digging as Cromwell returned to his own detail. With hands shaking from excitement, he drove his shovel into the ground, and wondered how many more days he'd have to dig for before freedom would come. Cromwell's orders were to get to Krakow where he could blend in with the locals, then find a way to make contact with the Allies. If he could get back to England, or make it to a neutral country, all the better. With him, he carried letters from each of the surviving men. Proof that they hadn't been KIA after all.

As he dug into the frozen mud, his mind drifted back to home, to the family he'd left behind. Regret stabbed its icy fingers into his stomach. Regret about the way he'd left things. The last words he'd spoken to Peggy. That he hadn't done a better job of convincing her to join the SOE. She was probably married by now. Probably had a child, maybe another one on the way. All of her potential, wasted. Because of Fred. A man who sat comfortably in the Home Office while others gave their lives for freedom. Peggy deserved more. A pity she couldn't see that.

Thoughts of home always made time pass more quickly, and today was no exception. One minute he was back home, talking to Peggy about her chance at working for the SOE, and the next he was in the biting wind of the _stalag_ , Corporal Backhouse elbowing him gently for attention.

"Steinberg says everything is ready," Backhouse whispered. "It's now or never."

Michael's heart fluttered with anticipation and excitement. Their last escape attempt had ended with the death of several of his men, but that had been a foolhardy attempt to overpower their guards and leave en mass. In the two years since then, Michael had grown wiser and more patient. His alliance with Steinberg had just been the first step. Now, they would take their final step. One that would hopefully lead to freedom for all.

"Then let's get it done," he whispered back. "It's time."

He nodded at Cromwell across the quarry, signalling his second-in-command to be ready for what would come next. Cromwell nodded back, and slowly began to work his way towards the hole. Michael gathered what was left of his men and led them to the water pump, where several of the Jews were working the device, pumping out muddy water into rough wooden cups. All Jews in the camp were easily distinguishable by the tattooed numbers on their arms, and the Star of David they were forced to wear on their prisoner rags. They came from all over Poland and Germany, shipped in whenever their captors needed replacement workers, united by their faith and their suffering.

He just hoped they could put on a good show.

For the first time in three years, Michael buried his respect for his fellow man. He buried it deep, where he hid his feelings of disappointment over his sister's choices. So deep that he couldn't let them touch him, and affect what needed to be done. As he approached the men at the pump, he fixed a glare on his face. Fed himself a lie. That he hated these people. That they were responsible for his downfall. He lashed out, knocking the cup out of one man's hand, muddy water seeping into the ground. With a snarl of anger, he said, "You. Jew. I'm fed up of you shirking your work. You idle at the water pump while me and my men slave away in the quarry. Well, it's time for that to end."

The Jewish man—Michael didn't know his name, but he knew he was one of Steinberg's associates—turned with a scowl of his own.

"Oh? And what are _you_ going to do about it, Farshtunkener?"

He didn't stop to think about his actions, because he might've talked himself out of it. He just let the goad sink its hooks in, let his body move like he hadn't since he was twelve years old, responding to some school bully's taunt. " _Oh, this is your sister_ _'s lunch? Well, what're you going to do about it, Carter?"_

The punch wasn't thrown with his full strength. His 'full' strength was feeble right now anyway, but the last thing he wanted was to seriously hurt his opponent, even by accident. It wasn't a full strength punch, but it was enough to send him staggering back. As if on some signal, other men joined the fray on both sides. Rigby and one of the Jewish men tussled by the water bucket, six-and-a-half-foot Camberley held off two Jews barely half his size, while Holt let one of the Jews throw him and pin him in a pretty convincing strangle-hold.

The fight had the desired effect. Guards came racing, wading into the mêlée, wielding rifles which they butted into ribs and backs to break up the combatants. Michael, focused on playing his part, barely noticed them—until one jabbed his rifle stock right into his floating ribs, sending him into a crumpled heap. Fighting for breath, he took in the state of his men. One of the Jews had a black eye, while Camberley's nose was bleeding. The knuckles on Michael's right hand were bruised, and he knew he wouldn't be the only one struggling to hold a shovel or a pick for a few days.

"Get back to vork," one of the guards commanded. "Or ve vill replace you."

Michael shivered at the threat. Men were only replaced when they died, and he wasn't willing to push his captors that far. Not when they were so close to getting word out.

"You Jews stay away from me and my men," Michael called to his limping opponent. A stupid thing to say, since the Jews far outnumbered Michael's team, but it was exactly the sort of thing an angry, hot-headed prisoner might mouth off. Until rescue came—which would probably be after the end of the war—he still had a part to play, and with enemy reinforcements on the way, the stage was about to become more dangerous than ever.

He didn't ask after Cromwell as he returned to work. He didn't look around, or otherwise draw attention to his absent team-mate. But an hour later, Backhouse sidled over to him and whispered that Steinberg had told him Cromwell managed to get away unnoticed in the chaos. By now, he would've recovered his new clothes and papers in their cache by the river, and would be well on his way to Krakow.

For the first time in three years, Michael Carter smiled.

* * *

 _Author's note: Thanks to everyone for your well-wishes. I'm much recovered from my cold now, and feeling pretty good overall. Don't worry, we won't be languishing with Bucky's illness much longer... the Commandos will soon be getting out and having adventures._


	91. The Rocky Road

We Were Soldiers

 _91\. The Rocky Road_

The hospital grounds were bare and bleak, full of skeletal trees bereft of their leaves, and withered bushes waiting for the turn of the season. A few weeks ago, Bucky would've found his view from the window depressive. He would've likened the trees to his own physical, mental and emotional state; bare and empty, dying from cold. Trapped in his own melancholy, he'd forgotten one important thing. The trees did not die, in winter. They simply waited, dormant, for the chance to put out new leaves and new roots. If the trees could wait out the cold and the dark, so could he.

For the first time since getting out of Krausberg, he felt a glimmer of hope on the horizon. Sure, Stark and the doctors had no idea what was wrong with him. For all they knew, he could be dying. Nobody said it, but they all feared it. And yet, Bucky no longer feared what was happening to him. Ever since his dream, the dream with the shadows and the fire, he no longer felt so alone. He didn't think for one minute that the shadows in the dream were the _actual_ spirits of the friends he'd lost, but they served as a reminder that there were worlds beyond the one he could see and hear and touch. He'd always believed that there was _something_ after death, and he knew that all the people he cared about would be waiting for him on the other side.

As his hope returned, so did his physical strength. Stark loudly proclaimed the protein bars he'd made for Steve a success, and put Bucky on a regimen of three per week, on top of what he already ate. Stark took blood samples, and spent long hours mulling over them in his lab. At one point he told Bucky there was a virus in his system; there, but inert. What it was, or how it had got there, he didn't know, but so long as it remained inert, Stark assured him it could do no harm.

During the five days Bucky spent in the hospital regaining his strength, he had a slew of visitors. On the first day, Morita and Dernier came by to cheer him up with stories they'd heard in some of the pubs of victories along the front. Morita also snuck a flask of whisky into the hospital in the pocket of his jacket, and Bucky enjoyed his first sip of alcohol since Christmas day; until a nurse caught them drinking and cruelly confiscated the flask.

One day two, Jones and Dugan paid him a visit. The first Bucky heard of it was Dugan standing in the hospital grounds beneath his window, shouting up, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!" Probably running out of fairy tale princess names to call Bucky by. But despite Dugan's tomfoolery, both men were full of sympathy. Dugan offered to post any letters Bucky had written, so he handed over the one he'd written to his family the night before. Might as well let them know he was still okay, even if that was technically a lie.

Falsworth came back from furlough on the third day of Bucky's convalescence, and made a visit to the hospital his first task. The major was a great source of military gossip, since pretty much all of his family were serving, and he kept Bucky's mind occupied for a full two hours with talk of various campaigns and scandals. It was a welcome distraction from the boredom of the hospital room.

Steve and Stark were daily visitors, though their schedules were such that they rarely ever visited at the same time. After three days of listening to Stark ramble on about his inventions, and how progress on them was going, Bucky wondered if Steve had purposely arranged it that way.

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Bucky asked at last. He'd spent the past twenty minutes hearing all about the advantages of certain unpronounceable alloys in weapons construction, and was both lost and perplexed.

Stark peered over the top of Bucky's most recent medical chart. "Because talking about my inventions with other people helps me with my ideas. Most other people leave after a half hour of my invention-talk, but you're confined to bed-rest, so you're not going anywhere."

"Don't you have… y'know… friends that you can talk to about this?"

With a grin, Stark reached out and slapped his shoulder. "Of course, pal. That's the other reason I'm here!"

Part of Bucky wanted to point out that they weren't technically friends. The bigger part of him realised Stark probably didn't have many friends. The people who worked _for_ him were _assistants_. The people who worked _with_ him were _colleagues_ or _associates_. The only person Bucky had known Stark to socialise with outside of a laboratory setting was Agent Carter; he had a habit of tagging along with things she was doing… like the Christmas party.

Suddenly, his own situation didn't seem so grim. Sure, he might die at any minute thanks to whatever Zola had done to him or just because of the war in general, but at least he wasn't alone. He had friends who cared about him, and wanted to spend time with him. Nobody much wanted to spend time with Stark, because he had a habit of lording his intelligence over everybody else.

"By the way," Stark continued, "I'm close to a working prototype for those jet boots you wanted. What say we schedule a test once you're out of this dump?"

"Huh?" This was a new level of odd, even for Stark. "What're you talking about? I never asked for jet boots."

"Sure you did!" Stark put down the chart and rummaged in his pockets until he pulled out a sheet of paper, which he unfolded and handed to Bucky. There, in handwriting he hadn't seen since his jacket was taken from him in Krausberg, was a list of potential inventions, with _jet boots_ written neatly at the top.

Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat as memories came trickling back in. The letter Gusty had written to Nurse Klein. The lists Agent Carter had requested for possible inventions for Stark to look at. The bullshit argument it had somehow spawned between he and Wells. Good memories, and memories full of regret over his behaviour. If he'd known back then that he'd lose so many friends, he would've tried harder to treat them better. Kinda like how he should've tried harder with Steve, during their team training. Well, at least he could take a lesson away from it now. No more stupid arguing. No more acting like a child about trivial stuff. Now, he would do better.

"This isn't my list," he said, holding it up for Stark to see. "It was Sergeant Wells'. See, it even has his name in the top corner."

Stark tapped his chin as he gazed at the paper. "Wells, Wells… wasn't he that black fella?"

Bucky shook his head. "Why do you do that? Why do you pretend you don't remember our names, and pretend to get us all mixed up, when you know perfectly well who we are?"

He'd expected some overly dramatic denial, some claim that Stark really did have a bad head for names and faces. But the guy merely shrugged, and said, "Mostly it amuses me to see you all so annoyed."

"And maybe that's one of the reasons why nobody wants to hear about your ideas." He gave the paper a little wave. "Mind if I keep this?"

"Sure. If you don't want jet boots, or a hover-tank, I have no further use for it."

"Thanks." He folded the paper back up and put it inside the drawer beside his bed. Then, he gestured at his medical chart. "So, how's everything looking?"

"Oh, good, good. Your vitals are close to normal, and you're not dead yet, which is always a bonus. Another couple of days and we can start to schedule some physicals. Just the basics; you'll need a few more days before you're back to full strength. If you keep up the good progress, we should have you mission-ready in a week."

"A week still feels like too long," he said. "I wish I could get out there right now."

"A week isn't that long, not after what you've been through. Plus, it's not like you gave yourself a proper recovery after we got to London. Too much alcohol, not enough rest. If you want to get back in the fight, you've gotta start taking better care of yourself."

"Yes, Mom."

An hour after Stark left, Steve showed up, and he wasn't empty handed. From his pocket, he pulled a familiar item.

"Thought you might need some entertainment," he explained, as he put Bucky's copy of _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ on the bedside table. "Are you ever going to read it?"

"One day," Bucky assured him. "How did you get it out of my room?"

"I had Dernier steal the spare key from behind the reception." Steve, aged eleven, winked at Bucky. "The ol' apple-pie-distraction method."

"I'm glad you have Jacques putting his skills to good use. A use that the brass would most assuredly not approve of." And a reason to be glad he hadn't written anything serious in the journal Steve had gotten him for Christmas. If his friends had been snooping around in his room, there was no telling what they might've 'accidentally' read. "Guess what? Stark came by earlier and says I'm almost ready for some of my physicals."

Steve managed a smile, and squeezed his shoulder with what Bucky guessed was probably great care. "I'm glad you're almost back on your feet. It's been lonely without you."

"The Commandos aren't keeping you company in my obviously painful absence?" teased Bucky.

"Yeah, but first they see me as Captain America, and then as Steve Rogers. You're the only one who doesn't treat me like some super-hero."

"What about Carter? I'm pretty sure she doesn't worship the ground you walk on."

"You're not wrong." Steve pulled up a chair and looked for all the world like a man shouldering a great burden. "Some days I'll see her at HQ, and she'll barely even spare a glance for me. Other times, she'll smile at me, and it feels like it's a smile that's intended just for me alone, even though there might be a dozen other officers around me."

Bucky nodded sagely. "That's dames for you." And, because he'd had a lot of time over the past four days to think about everything that'd happened over the past few months, added, "It's probably not easy for her, either."

"Whaddya mean?"

He propped himself up in his bed, so he could better impart his wisdom to Steve. Somebody might as well make use of it, since all the nurses in the hospital were either Mom-aged or already married. London had a serious shortage of beautiful young nurses.

"Think about it. Agent Carter's been doing this whole soldier-agent-spy stuff for a while now. She's pretty determined to make a name for herself as a competent soldier-agent-spy… a little _too_ determined sometimes, if you ask me." He hurried on before Steve, mouth poised open, could defend his criticism of her. "And you're already a bit famous, because of Krausberg, and because Jones and Morita like to tell stories about you in the _Fiddle._ "

"They don't… do they?"

Bucky nodded again. "Don't lecture them about it, they do it because they draw in a good crowd and it gets us our own table on reservation."

"Alright, but what does this have to do with Pe—Agent Carter?"

Silently, Bucky prayed for the day when he wouldn't have to connect _all_ the dots for his best friend. Steve was pretty damn smart, but where the fairer gender were concerned, he was still naïve as a newborn baby.

"Well, what if attaching herself to a guy—pardon the expression, pal—is like a step backwards for her? What if people start sayin' she only got where she did because of you? Or that she's given special treatment because you asked for it on her behalf? We all know it ain't like that, but you know how rumours and gossip are. Being Agent Carter and being Captain America's girl are two things that she's probably still trying to reconcile inside her own mind. How do you give your heart to someone without compromising your own dreams?"

"I never thought of it like that," said Steve.

Bucky could tell by the deflated set of his shoulders that he'd just given his friend a lot to think about. In truth, he'd only just started really thinking about it himself. Most women were expected to settle down and get married. For them, a husband and a family was supposed to _be_ the dream. But how many, like Peggy Carter, had dreams of their own they wanted to fulfill? Thanks to the war, women like Carter, and Mary-Ann, were doing things they'd never had chance to before. They were working in jobs that had previously been closed to them. Was it fair to ask them to abandon those dreams and go back to being content with raising children and taking care of homes?

Steve offered a heavy sigh. "I just wish I could show her that those things don't have to be in opposition to each other. That they can go together. I can't ask her to sacrifice her dreams to be with me."

Bucky instantly regretted giving voice to his musings. Hope was to precious a commodity to be so idly taken away, and if anybody deserved some hope, it was Steve.

"Maybe it doesn't have to be like that," he said. "I mean, you're not average GI Joe, and Carter isn't some dame looking to sit behind the reception desk at her father's company. I'm sure that if the two of you put your heads together, you could make it work in a way that's mutually beneficial."

"That doesn't sound very romantic."

"Fine: mutually beneficial with candlelight and violin music. Has she at least accepted your invitation for the second half of your first date?"

"Err…" Steve's hand idly moved to scratch the back of his head in one of his most obvious poker-tells. "Well, see, the thing is… I haven't exactly gotten around to asking her yet." When Bucky aimed a pointed stare at him, he swiftly continued. "We were really busy with all our training, and then Christmas, and then the mission…"

"We've been back from the mission for, what, six days?"

"Yeah, but you've been in the hospital."

"And you need me to be there and hold your hand while you ask her?"

"Of course not! But I can hardly ask Peggy out on a date while you're not well. It wouldn't feel right. I'd be too worried about you to enjoy time with her, and that isn't fair to her. She deserves someone who can focus on her completely."

Bucky sat forward and put on his best Dad stare. His best friend was definitely in need of a little wise Dad-logic. "Steve, if you wait for the 'perfect' moment, or a time when you can focus one hundred percent of your attention on her, then you're going to be waiting forever. We're at war, and we might be at war for a very long time. Any one of us can die at any minute, and nobody can focus a hundred percent on any one thing. _Carpe diem_ , pal. If you don't, someone else will, or it'll pass you by completely."

"I know, I know." Steve leant back in his chair, and his expression slid towards despair. "But for some reason, the thought of going out on a real date with Peggy is more nerve-wracking than the thought of going into battle. Taking punches, giving punches… that's something I know how to do. But talking to dames..? It's like heading into unfamiliar territory, and knowing there's no map go guide me through."

"That's the good thing about unfamiliar territory," Bucky pointed out. "You get to make your own map. Like Emerson said… _go instead where there is no path, and leave a trail_. You're already off to a good start with that drawing you did for her Christmas present. Don't lose momentum now. If she's worried that getting close to you might mean sacrificing her dreams, show her that it doesn't have to be that way."

"You're right," said Steve.

"I'm always right."

"I guess all I can do is be the best me I can be, and hope that's enough for her."

"She'd be a fool to pass you over," Bucky nodded. "Just promise me one thing?"

"Anything. Except naming my first son after you."

Bucky let that one slide. Steve's first kid was _definitely_ being named after him. "Whatever happens to me, or anybody else, don't let that come between you and your happy ending. You deserve everything your heart desires, and I don't want to be the reason you miss out."

"Alright, but only if you'll promise the same thing." Steve held out his hand. "You deserve your happy ending too, whatever it may be."

"Deal." They shook on it, and Bucky settled back down into his bed. A happy ending? Sure, that would be nice. Six months ago, his happy ending would've been a well-paid job and a beautiful wife. Since then, war had sunk its claws into him. Now, his happy ending was much more humble. He wanted to get through the war without losing any more friends. That would be the happiest ending he could ever ask for.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky paced the short length of his hospital room and tried not to let his irritation get the better of him. For the past few days, he'd been taking advantage of the hospital grounds to do walking and exercising. The doctors said the fresh air would do him wonders, and they were right. But a storm had blown in, bringing rain lashing against the windows and cold draughts whistling down the old corridors. A foul mood had infected doctors, nurses and patients alike, leaving the inhabitants of the hospital short-tempered and cranky.

Somebody knocked on Bucky's door, and he ceased his pacing in favour of sitting on the edge of his bed. He'd finally been allowed to wear his uniform instead of a hospital gown, and now he only took it off to shower and to sleep. If they were planning on taking it off him again, they were going to have one hell of a fight on their hands.

"Come in, I'm decent," he called.

The door opened wide enough to admit Steve's head, and the rest of him followed once he really was sure Bucky was decent. His jacket was damp and his hair was simultaneously wind-swept and plastered to his head. The answer to _what kinda lunatic goes outside in weather like this?_ was resolved in Steve.

"Are you mad?" Bucky asked him. "One of the nurses told me it's raining cats and dogs out there. Probably horses, too."

"To answer your question," Steve replied as he took off his jacket and hung it over the back of the visitor's chair, "I'll point out that the first thing I did after you left for Europe was volunteer for an experimental gene enhancement therapy."

Oh yeah. That. Clearly he _was_ mad. "I recant my question, but what're you doing here? Not that I'm not glad to see you, of course."

"Well, tomorrow's the big day," Steve pointed out, as if Bucky could possibly have forgotten. "I just wanted to check on how you were doing. And don't say 'fine', 'cos you know that won't fly tomorrow."

Steve was far too smart for his own good. Bucky patted the bed beside him, and waited for his best friend to sit down before giving a sitrep on his current state.

"I'm nervous," he admitted. He'd already passed the physicals with flying colours. A bunch of push-ups and sit-ups and a few laps around the hospital ground, accompanied by a medical examination overseen by Doctor Hopkins and Howard Stark. Tomorrow, though, he had his final hurdle to overcome. One final test to pass. The psychological. And he'd been told it would be administered by somebody who was _actually_ versed in psychology. Not like the guys in the enlistment office, who'd been given a half-hour's worth of training on how to weed out the psychopaths and the homosexuals, but an actual doctor of actual psychology. He was pretty sure he was going to fail the exam, because how could you pass an exam given by somebody whose very purpose was to trip you up and make you expose the things you wanted to keep hidden?

"I hear ya. And for what it's worth, I think you'll breeze it."

"I didn't know you had such faith in my current mental state." In fact, he was pretty sure Steve had been worried about his mental state several times, what with the whole drinking thing, and then his insistence on not taking prisoners during their first mission.

"I have faith enough. And I'll make you a deal; you pass your assessment, and I'll ask Peggy out on that second half of our first date that we talked about the other day."

"Make me a better deal and ask her out regardless of how I do on my assessment," Bucky countered. "I don't wanna go in there with your love life riding on my passing the test. That's not the kinda pressure I signed up for."

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're right. I'm an idiot. Sorry, I know I shouldn't have put it on you like that."

"If you're trying to motivate me, try finding out whether there are any single nurses left in England right now. That way I might stand a chance of finding someone I can invite to that double-date we're overdue for."

He'd meant the comment tongue-in-cheek—he really had no desire to go on a double-date with Steve, because that would just be all kinds of awkward—but a tiny light came on in Steve's eyes. The same light that'd come on when America had joined the war, and the enlistment offices had opened up. The light that said Steven Grant Rogers thought this was A Good Idea.

"Oh!" Steve smacked his hand into his forehead, and reached into his pocket. "I almost forgot. The _other_ reason I came to see you today. You got this delivered this morning."

He handed over an envelope on which was written Bucky's name, rank and regiment. A letter from home. The first he'd had since before Christmas. Half of him wanted to tear into it and find out what was happening with everyone at home. The other half anticipated more guilt-ridden pleas from his mother to accept a medical discharge and return to New York. To open the letter now, or to leave it until after his psychological evaluation?

"Want me to give you some time alone to read it?" Steve prompted. "I know how slow you are at reading stuff." He gestured to the book as yet unopened on the small bedside cabinet. "You know I can help you with big words, right?"

Bucky punched his arm, and not as lightly as he would've done to old-Steve. "Which of us is the English major here? And which of us studied pictures at college?"

"Art," Steve corrected. "It's language without words."

"Hush up." He slid a finger beneath the envelope flap and tore it open. "I have a letter to read. I'll let you know if I come across any complicated pictures that need deciphering."

Steve chuckled and repositioned himself in the visitor's chair while Bucky began to read.

 _Dear Bucky_

 _We_ _'re all glad to hear that you're doing well, and still by Steve's side. However hard it is for us to think of you fighting out there, it's a comfort to know that you and Steve will be serving together. That you'll do your best to make sure you both get home safely, and we look forward to that day with all our hearts._

 _Things are much the same here these days. Mary-Ann is still in Baltimore, and celebrating the completion of her twenty-fifth ship. We_ _'re continually amazed by how fast those girls can build them… Dad says the Germans don't stand a chance against our Victory fleet. I hope he's right! Janet's already panicking about her senior exams, even though they're still a year off. We keep telling her that she's a bright girl, and that she'll pass them with flying colours, but she's still studying every single night. At least she is keen to succeed, even if her social life is suffering a little._

 _There_ _'s a bit of sad news we should tell you about now; Charlie and Linda have broken up. It was a silly argument, really, but an important one. You see, after we received the condolence letter stating you were killed in action, Charlie went down to the enlistment office right away to sign up. He got as far as the medical, but then was told he wasn't eligible to serve, as he was the sole surviving son of our family. He was disappointed, but accepted the decision._

 _After we received the happy news that you were alive and well, he again went to enlist_ _—he wants so badly to join the war effort—but was told that he still wasn_ _'t eligible because even though we had a letter stating you were alive, the necessary paperwork hadn't come through from the Army officials to lift his restriction on enlisting. He's been again a couple more times, the last time just before Christmas, but it seems the wheels of war are slow to turn, and until the necessary bits of paper have been officially signed off, he can't enlist. As you can imagine, he's extremely vexed about this. He and Linda got into a frightful argument, and she accused him of caring more about fighting in the war and proving himself than he did about building his future with her. She begged him not to try enlisting again, but of course, he ignored her. You know how bull-headed he can be._

 _Anyway, Linda said she couldn_ _'t be with a man who chooses war over life, and so they broke up just after Christmas, in a most dreadful shouting argument. I feel like a traitor for saying this, but I'm glad the paperwork hasn't come through yet, and that Charlie is forbidden from enlisting. It's hard enough having one son in Europe; I don't think I could cope with my baby boy being out there, too. Or worse—for him to be sent to the Pacific. He doesn't have your common sense, and I fear what would happen to him._

 _That_ _'s about the long and short of it. We all miss you dearly, and can't wait for this war to be over so that you can come home and make our family whole again. Please take care, and pass on our love to Steve, as well. Let him know that we're visiting Sarah's grave every weekend, to make sure the wreaths are well-tended._

 _All our love,_

 _Mom and Dad_

"Is it bad?" asked Steve, as Bucky blinked back his tears. Instead of replying, he simply handed the letter over and let Steve read it himself. "Ah. Charlie, huh? I didn't think he wanted to serve."

"Neither did I," Bucky agreed. "Maybe he wanted to enlist before he could be drafted. Sounds more patriotic, that way. But I wonder why the paperwork hasn't gone through yet. The stuff needed to allow Charlie to enlist."

"Maybe Phillips is sitting on it."

"Maybe." Or maybe things really _were_ disorganised, from an administration point of view. "Then again, they got my medical discharge wrong, and nearly sent the wrong guy home. Perhaps that mix-up's had something to do with it."

"Yeah, probably." Steve stood up, yawned and stretched. "Well, guess I better be getting back to the hotel before it starts raining elephants and rhinos."

The swift departure was very un-Steve-like, but Bucky let it pass. His friend was probably just worried the conversation would swing back around to Carter again, and he'd no longer be able to delay the inevitable.

"By the way, everyone sends you their good luck wishes for the assessment tomorrow. They're certain you'll walk it."

"There's the vote of confidence I needed," he scoffed. But he scoffed in a joking way. The guys meant well, even if most of them stood no better chance of passing a psychological evaluation than Bucky himself. It really was unfair that Bucky had to take the assessment, but Dugan didn't. Perhaps he'd point that out to Phillips, during the next briefing. Psych evals for all the Commandos! That'd show 'em.

Steve donned his still-damp jacket and aimed a resigned look at the weather outside the window. "I'll be here tomorrow, for when you're out of your assessment," he said. "And we'll celebrate your return to duty."

 _I hope so._ "Sure thing, pal." At least now, he had another reason to pass. If Phillips really was sittin' on those official papers, then so long as Bucky was serving, Charlie was safe. If Bucky was sent back home, those papers might find their way back, too. He'd signed up to protect his family from the fighting, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let Charlie risk his life in his place.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Welcome back, Person543! I'm glad you're finding the story easy to resume. I would've replied to you personally, but you have PMs disabled._

 ** _WinterWidow_** _\- To answer your question, no, I haven't given up on 'And Then I Saw Red', or any of my other short/casual fics, but I started a new job in February which is sucking up a lot of the time I used previously to write those fics. As it is, I'm only just staying on top of We Were Soldiers, and since this fic is basically ginormous, I have to prioritise it or I risk running out of steam and losing all the stuff I have in my head for it. Until work calms down a little, I'll be focusing solely on We Were Soldiers. The other fics are something I can return to when I have the time to think about, and write, something else._ _  
_

 _P.S. Sorry for the late chapter - I got distracted by some sunshine yesterday._


	92. Less Travelled

We Were Soldiers

 _92\. Less Travelled_

The pale concrete corridor offered no warmth or comfort. It chilled Bucky to the bone, because he knew what awaited him at the end of it. This would be like nothing he had faced before. No foe he had overcome. No challenge he had risen to. Today, he would face his worse nightmare, and he wasn't sure he could best it.

At the end of the corridor, at the solid wooden door, he stopped. He took a deep breath. Heath pounding and mouth dry, he counted to ten, and knocked. When a man's voice called, _Come in, Sergeant Barnes_ , he steeled himself and reached for the handle. It, too, was cold. Just like everything else in this place.

He opened the door. Stepped into the office. The man behind the desk looked like any other doctor in the hospital. He wore a white coat. He wore spectacles. He carried a clipboard. And when he saw Bucky, he smiled. In a Midwestern, he said, "Welcome, Sergeant. Please take a seat."

Bucky had expected there to be several seats. For his choice in seats to have some deeper meaning. But there was only one seat, a wooden chair in front of the desk, and that was how Bucky passed his first test; he acquiesced.

"My name is Doctor Stiles," the man said. "And to put your mind at ease, I'm not here to judge you. Merely to evaluate your fitness so you can return to duty as soon as possible. Okay?"

"Yeah. Sure. Okay." He didn't believe a word of it, but there was no harm in pretending. No harm at all.

"Very good. Now, before we start, would you like something to drink? A glass of water? A cup of coffee?"

"No thanks, I only just finished breakfast."

Dr. Stiles wrinkled his nose and relaxed back into his chair. "Ah, hospital food. One of life's great challenges. Am I right?"

"I've had worse, sir. And less."

"I can't argue with that. What're they serving today?"

"Scrambled eggs on toast, and a choice of milk or coffee."

For the first time since Bucky entered the room, the doctor glanced at his clipboard. "And you ate a full breakfast?"

Bucky nodded. "And went back for seconds. I've got a special note on my hospital records that allows it if I want it."

"Good, good. So." He spread his arms, gesturing broadly. "How are you, Sergeant Barnes?"

It was such a broad, non-specific question, that Bucky floundered. Where did he start? How the hell did he answer? How was in in comparison to _what_? Perhaps it would be best to just describe how he felt now.

"Bored," he said. "Now that I'm outta the woods, I don't like sitting around doing nothing. I oughta be out there, doing my job."

"So, you're frustrated?"

"Yeah. I mean, I can understand _why_ I gotta take it easy, and why I have to go through all these assessments, but that doesn't really make the waiting any easier."

"Previous doctors have noted that you've suffered in the past from lack of sleep, nightmares and mood swings, predominantly as a result of your capture and experiences in Krausberg. Are you still feeling the effects of that time?"

"Nightmares, a little," he admitted. "But they're not as bad as they used to be, and they generally don't keep me from going back to sleep, afterwards."

"Any anxiety about going back to your duties?"

"Nothing but excitement, sir."

"So, you're eager to kill Nazis?"

"I'm eager to win the war so that I can go home and be with my family." So that he could make up for his past mistakes. His past weakness. "If I've gotta kill Nazis to do that… well, it's just a part of the job. It's what I've been trained to do. But if you're asking if I take enjoyment from killing them… no. I'm not that kinda man." Besides, he was reserving his enjoyment for Zola. The evil HYDRA scientist was the only man Bucky would enjoy killing. Sinking his knife into the man's neck, or emptying a round of bullets into his chest. Ridding the world of his evil once and for all.

"Well okay then." The doctor opened his desk drawer, and Bucky tensed. But all he pulled out was a stamp and ink pad, which he used to stamp something onto the form on the clipboard. He slid it over to the desk, and gestured for Bucky to pick it up. The stamped words read 'fit for duty' in dark green ink.

"That's it?" he asked, as relief and disbelief battled for dominance. Surely it couldn't be that easy. Couldn't the doctor _see_ how broken he was? How he'd been damaged right down to his core by what Zola had put him through? Wasn't there some magical psychology glue he could offer to help stick Bucky back together again? Or at the very least, some psychology duct-tape? "Aren't you doing to… y'know… ask me about my childhood?"

"Do you feel you _need_ to talk about your childhood?" The doctor's face was a mask of bemusement. Bucky felt like an idiot for even suggesting it.

"Not really. It was pretty average."

"Then I don't think it's particularly relevant. I'd like you to stay until after lunch time, to give the medical doctors one last chance to check you over—and give you one last hospital meal—but then you're free to return to your commanding officer for orders. Take this form to the medical administrator on the ground floor, and they'll inform your CO of the outcome. I know this might've seemed like a short assessment compared to your physicals, but you appear to be of sound mind, and I have another twelve soldiers to see before the day's over."

Bucky nodded in understanding. The doctor didn't truly care about him. By the end of the day, he would've forgotten Bucky's name and face. All he cared was that his patient wasn't a danger to himself or those around him. He wasn't here to stick emotional bandages over Bucky's hurts, but to make sure soldiers were mentally fit enough to fight. That was all that mattered.

He stood and saluted. "Thank you, sir."

Out in the corridor, an invisible weight disappeared from his shoulders as he made his way to the stairwell. He'd been worrying these past days over nothing. And now, he had proof that he was fit for duty. Nobody would be able to doubt him, now that his form had been stamped.

After handing his form in to one of the nurses, he decided to let Steve know the good news. Telephone communications in London were patchy at the best of times, but a generation of children earned a little money by running errands around the city. For a farthing, they'd deliver a message to anywhere within half a mile, and for another farthing, would bring a response back. The young couriers were cheaper than their adult counterparts, and faster than anything except couriers on horses. Groups of them loitered wherever locals or servicemen might need messages sent to and from, and the hospital was no exception. Bucky found a few of the youngsters in their mis-sized hand-me-downs hanging around in the reception area, and one of them approached him before he could even open his mouth.

"Run an errand for ya, Sergeant?" the boy asked.

"Yes, I need you to deliver a message for me." He borrowed a scrap of paper from the receptionist, and scribbled down, _'Steve, I've got a clean bill of health, being discharged from the hospital at lunch time. Bucky.'_ The paper and a farthing went to the boy. "Take this to Captain Steve Rogers at the Strand Hotel."

The boy's blue eyes widened as he reached out and accepted the items. "Cor, you know that Captain America fella?"

" _You_ know Captain America?"

"Yeh, I ran an errand fer 'im last week." The boy tapped the side of his nose. "Can't tell ya what it was, 'course. Never know when Jerry spies might be listenin'. I got whats ya call disk-re-shun. Anyway, ya want a message bringin' back?"

"No, just the delivery."

"Owright, I can be at the Strand in ten minutes." The boy tipped his cap and darted off. Bucky had no doubt the boy could make it in ten. And hopefully, with Bucky back in play, Phillips would find some new mission to send the Commandos on. Hopefully it would bring them one step closer to striking at Zola.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

After packing his duffel bag with everything Steve and the others had brought him to help him feel comfortable during his hospital stay, Bucky donned his jacket and checked his reflection in the mirror. For the first time in a long time, he looked like himself. Almost. His eyes still bore shadows beneath them, thanks to nights spent tossing and turning in the grip of Krausberg-themed nightmares, but he was no longer gaunt, his skin now a healthy colour rather than the ashen tinge it had taken on previously, and his hair didn't fall lankly into his eyes anymore. A visit from the barber had seen to that.

A knock on the door preceded it opening to admit Steve. "Thought I'd come and welcome you to freedom," he explained.

"I can't wait for things to get back to normal," Bucky said. "And by 'normal', I mean 'undertaking covert missions to battle evil Nazis.' Because that's some crazy kinda normal we have."

"I hope you won't go stir-crazy if you have to wait another couple of days for our next mission. Phillips is working on the logistics right now, but he thinks we'll be able to take a swipe at one of those facilities I saw marked on Schmidt's map in Krausberg."

Bucky couldn't help his smile. "And that's why we're gonna beat them. Because we're up against an enemy who marks the location of his secret bases on a map."

"Plus, we have the world's best marksman on our side." Steve threw an arm across Bucky's shoulders, picked up the duffel bag from the bed, and led him towards the door. "And speaking of our side, the fellas have prepared a little celebration for you in the _Fiddle_. They're waiting there right now with a big 'welcome back' banner. And Dugan's got a special surprise planned for you."

"What kinda special surprise?" Knowing Dugan, it would be something painful. Possibly something involving arm-wrestling.

Steve winked. "That's what makes it a surprise. Besides, I don't actually know. He just said to tell you it's part of the welcome-back celebrations." Definitely arm wrestling, then. "Everyone's looking forward to seeing you again. Lizzie even managed to get her hands on some pretzels and salted peanuts, for snacks."

"Sounds good. But there's something I gotta do, first. Can I meet you there in about fifteen minutes?"

Steve's eyebrows rose, but he didn't pry. "Sure. Want me to drop your bag off in your room on my way?"

"Please. I won't be too long."

Steve left, and Bucky made his way to the main staircase. The medical labs were on the fourth floor, tucked away down a quiet, little-used corridor. He'd only found them by accident one day when boredom had sent exploring his temporary home. He knew Howard Stark would be there because the scientist had told him, at great length, how the hospital's medical labs were superior to his own engineering labs for certain aspects of top secret, super-important stuff he was working on. Chocolate-flavoured protein bars were still a work in progress.

The medical technicians were the most territorial bunch of people Bucky had ever encountered, and they ruled over their labs like dragons over their hoards of gold. To avoid their wrath, he only opened the lab door a fraction of an inch, then slowly pushed it a little further. When it was wide enough for him to peer around, he stuck his head through the gap and performed a quick visual scan of the room. Three of the technicians were busy labelling blood samples in preparation for microscope analysis, while Howard Stark was occupied with titrating some sort of liquid into a beaker of brown.

" _Pssst!_ " Bucky hissed.

Stark, his eyes protected by a pair of heavy goggles, frowned at the beaker of brown. "Pssst? It's not supposed to make that noise. Not yet, anyway."

"I made that noise," Bucky whispered loud enough for Stark to hear.

"Oh, Sergeant Barnes. Why are you hissing at me?"

"I just wanted to let you know I've passed my psychological evaluation. I'm fit to return to duty."

Stark grinned. "Congratulations. I never doubted your sanity more than I did any other man or woman fighting this war."

"The Commandos are holding a celebration kinda thing in the _Fiddle._ "

"I'm sure they'll get you suitably drunk."

"I'm sure they'll try. But I wanted to invite you to come with us."

"Me?" Two black eyebrows rose up above the goggles. "Why?"

"Because I couldn't have gotten this far without your help and expertise," he said. Sure, Stark was an insufferable know-it-all, but it was time Bucky started showing a little gratitude. Besides, there had to be more to Stark than an ego in a sharp suit. All men had layers, no matter how well they hid them. "You helped save my life, back in France, and I'm pretty sure you've just done it again. Time and time again, you've come through for me. For us. Besides, I'm celebrating with my friends, and we _are_ friends, aren't we?"

"Of course we are. But don't think I'm going to let you off that bottle of Balvenie you owe me."

"I promise I'll get it to you after the war's over." And it might finally get the guy to shut up about it. "So, you ready to celebrate?"

"Sure." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "These guys are a bore. I could use some entertainment."

The walk to the _Fiddle_ with Howard Stark involved something Bucky hadn't planned for; a walk to the _Fiddle_ with Howard Stark. The man whistled as he strolled, some tune that Bucky didn't recognise. With his hands in his jacket pocket, he nodded at any ladies he passed, and smiled at those who weren't accompanied by men. How long would it be before Stark disappeared from the _Fiddle_ with a dame on his arm?

"So. Mr. Stark. You got any family back home?"

"Nope. It's just me."

"Isn't that kinda lonely?"

"I prefer it this way. I'm answerable only to myself. And the U.S. Government. But that's more of a contractual matter than a family one."

Was that why Stark spent so much time chasing dames? Was he lonely? He obviously didn't have many friends. And regardless of how annoying the guy could be, Bucky was determined to change that. Stark had proven his worth more than once, and now it was time for Bucky to return the favour.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"What the devil's taking him so long?" Falsworth grumbled. He'd spent an hour working on the 'Welcome Back, Sergeant Barnes' banner that graced the wooden ceiling beam above their usual table.

"I don't know," said Steve. "He just said he had something to do, and told me he'd meet us here." It was all very mysterious. Knowing Bucky, he'd finally found a pretty nurse who wasn't already spoken for. That was probably it.

At that moment, the _Fiddle_ _'s_ door opened to admit two figures. One was Bucky, but the other most definitely was not a nurse. It was Howard Stark. The last person Steve had imagined seeing Bucky with. Perhaps Stark was taking his role as Bucky's personal physician a little _too_ personally.

A loud cheer erupted from the Commandos, and Steve quickly picked up a clap to add to the cacophony. Bucky smiled wanly as he approached the table, once so happy to be the centre of attention, now simply tolerant of it. One by one, the Commandos clapped him on the shoulder and welcomed him back.

"It's good to see you all again," said Bucky. "Outside of a hospital room, of course."

"It's good to see you too, Princess," said Dugan. "And for this welcome-back party, I prepared a seat worthy of your esteemed personage." He stepped aside to reveal his surprise. It was one of the _Fiddle_ _'s_ chairs, made by Dugan—through the creative application of cardboard—to resemble a throne. "To celebrate the first and last time we'll ever be carrying your heavy ass around on a mission," he explained.

Bucky merely laughed and sat in the gaudy chair. Freddie stepped forward and took a quick snap before Bucky could object. "Guess this makes you my handmaiden," he told Dugan. "How 'bout we get a round of drinks?"

"I'll get them," said Steve. He'd already had his moment with Bucky. It was time to step back and let the others welcome him back in their own ways.

At the bar, he ordered a round of ales, and waited for the barman to pull them. The Commandos' revelry was still loud to his ears, but as soon as the door opened again, his focus was entirely transferred to the familiar click of heels. He knew who approached even before he smelt the perfume that always made his head giddy with excitement.

"I hope I'm not late for the party," said Peggy, as she stepped up beside him and leant her arms against the bar. Clad in her uniform, she'd clearly come straight from the SSR's headquarters.

"You're just in time," he smiled. What he _wanted_ to ask was whether Phillips was finally ready to give the go-ahead for them to move on one of the HYDRA facilities he'd marked on the map. But today was Bucky's day, and there was no room for work in the celebrations. Instead, he asked, "Can I get you a drink?"

Her brown-eyed gaze glanced over the pints that were slowly appearing on the bar. "I'll have what everyone else is having."

Once the barman had finished pulling the pints, Peggy helped Steve carry them over to the table. Bucky was still the recipient of some friendly ribbing, but he was taking it in his stride. The pints were passed around, and Dugan called out, "Let's have a speech from her Royal Highness, Princess Barnes!"

"Happy to oblige, handmaiden," said Bucky, as he took up his pint. The Commandos fell blessedly silent. "I want to thank you all for taking care of me when I wasn't well, and for looking out for me even after we got back to London. I probably wouldn't be here if it wasn't for each and every one of you. And I owe particular thanks to Mr. Stark, whose tireless work at the hospital helped get me back on my feet. I know I don't always appreciate everything he does for us, but I am truly grateful that he took precious moments out of his days to help me when even the doctors didn't know what was wrong. If anyone deserves to sit in this chair, it's Howard Stark."

As one, the Commandos peered at the scientist who loitered at the edge of the group. For once in his life, Howard Stark seemed speechless. Freddie took the opportunity to get a picture of Stark stood holding a pint of ale, his mouth agape. The flash of the camera seemed to bring him out of his surprise.

"Well. I. Err. Am happy to lend my expertise wherever it is needed," Stark said at last. "I may not be physically with you on your missions behind the front line, but I'm with you in spirit. Supporting the men who're taking on Schmidt is the least I can do."

"Three cheers for Mr. Stark," Bucky called. And the whole team obliged.

"Three cheers for Sergeant Barnes," Steve added. A round of _'hip-hip, hoorah's_ swiftly followed.

"Three cheers for Freddie!" Freddie added. The team erupted into laughter, but they cheered him anyway.

Lizzie appeared on the fringe of the group, her nose wrinkled in distaste. "You lot are noisier than the _Luftwaffe_ ," she complained. "Here, put some of this in your mouths; it might keep you quiet for a moment." She put a couple of bowls on the table, one containing a mound of pretzels, and the other a mountain of salted peanuts.

"Three cheers for Lizzy," Dugan commanded. The barmaid simply rolled her eyes as she was cheered, but there was a smile on her face as she returned to the bar.

With the official cheers out of the way, the Commandos pulled up chairs—and Dugan dragged one to the table for Stark—and broke off into smaller conversations. Steve was left standing beside Peggy, who smiled up at him before glancing back to her ale. He'd never been good at reading her thoughts… sometimes she seemed to disapprove of the most trivial things, and other times she overlooked what Steve might consider serious concerns.

"So. Agent Carter," he began. He'd promised Bucky that he'd ask her out for that all-important second date, and now seemed a fortuitous time to honour their agreement. "Are you… umm…" Dammit, why was this so hard? He knew the words to say. _Would you like to get lunch tomorrow?_ or _Would you care for dinner tomorrow night?_ But knowing them and saying them was a difficult mission when his tongue was so determined to get in his way.

"Am I what?" she prompted, after a moment of awkward silence.

"Are you… err… aware if the Colonel's heard anything more about that HYDRA facility he wants to take out?"

"If I was, I wouldn't be sipping ale here." Of course she wouldn't. _Idiot_. She'd be briefing the Commandos on their upcoming mission. "Rest assured, Captain, the moment I know something is the moment you'll know something."

"Y'know, you don't have to call me 'Captain' when we're off-duty," he said, inspired by his inner-Bucky. "'Steve' is fine. If you don't mind something more casual, of course."

"Are you sure _you_ want something more casual?" she countered. Before continuing, she gestured at the seated Commandos, indicating the whole group with her mostly-full glass of ale. "Isn't this what you've wanted for a long time? To be something more than 'just Steve'?"

"Not to you."

The words were out of his mouth before he could even think about stopping them, but the moment he saw her lips curl at the corners, he knew he'd said the right thing… for once. Time to see if his five-second streak of not putting his foot in his mouth could hold out.

"Ever since I was a kid, sitting by my bedroom window and watching everyone else pass me by, I wanted the rest of the world to see me as something more than sickly little Steve Rogers. Now that they have _Captain America_ , I feel like _Steve Rogers_ is slowly becoming a memory. I don't wanna be a memory. I wanna be Steve. For you, and Bucky, and all my friends. The rest of the world can't—or doesn't want—to see past the uniform. That makes it all the more important that those who knew me before the serum remember that I'm not just a symbol to be paraded on a stage; I'm a man, and I have dreams beyond signing autographs and doing photo shoots."

"Steve it is, then. While we're off-duty, at least." She held out her glass in toast, and he—very gently—clinked his own against it. "I'm just sorry it took you so long to realise that there is nothing wrong with being Steve Rogers. There never was."

She meant every word, he knew, but he just couldn't agree with the sentiment. The old Steve had been emotionally and mentally strong enough to stand up to bullies, but physically frail. If he couldn't even protect himself, how could he ever have protected others? All his life, he'd felt like a half-finished painting. Like some two-dimensional figure with no light or shadow to give him depth. Then, along came Dr. Erskine, with a palette full of colours Steve had never even seen before. Abraham Erskine had made Steve Rogers whole. A finished piece of work.

 _Captain America_ had been a title applied later.

Knowing that she'd always seen _Steve_ as _enough_ gave him the strength to ask the question that only moments before had eluded him.

"Say, err… Peggy, do you—"

"Agent Carter?"

Steve could've killed the saluting serviceman who interrupted his question. The young man stood rigid at attention, and his arrival hadn't gone unnoticed by the rest of the team. Dugan, Falsworth and Bucky eyed the young man too, and the conversations being held by the others trailed off when they noticed the group's attention was elsewhere.

Peggy didn't miss a beat. "Yes?" she asked the private, pretending for all the world like she wasn't in the middle of a pub holding a glass of ale in her hand.

"Colonel Phillips asked me to find you and give you a message. He needs to speak with you urgently at HQ."

"What's so urgent that it can't wait until morning?"

"He didn't tell me that, ma'am. Just that I was to find you and tell you to get to his office double-time. Those were his words, ma'am!" the soldier squeaked when Peggy glared at his presumption.

Steve had to hand it to her; even though she was off-duty, she was the epitome of professional efficiency. "Very well. Tell the colonel that I'll be there shortly."

The private darted for the door, and was gone in the space of five heartbeats. It took only as long for Peggy to down the remainder of her beer and place the glass daintily on the bar. She turned to Steve with a resigned smile, and he just about managed to get his mouth closed in time to avoid looking like a gaping idiot.

"Well, I suppose I should go and see what the colonel wants. Perhaps between the last time I saw him, and now, there's been some big decision finally made," she said. She eyed him speculatively before adding, "Why don't you come with me, Captain? If the colonel's summoned me on my first night off in over a week, I can only assume it's HYDRA-related."

 _Captain._ So. They were officially back on duty now. "If you're sure I'll not just get in the way."

"What about us?" Bucky chimed in. Judging by the tension in his shoulders, he was on the verge of rising from his chair, dashing out the door, and fetching all his gear. "Should we come, too?"

Steve shook his head. Colonel Phillips would probably be annoyed enough about Steve coming uninvited; he could only imagine how much worse the colonel's ire would be with his office full of Commandos. "Stay here and try to enjoy your welcome-back party. But, uh, maybe lay off the beers, just in case."

Once, not too long ago, Bucky would've pulled his face at the suggestion he stop at just one beer. It was a sign of how far he'd come that now, he simply nodded at the instruction.

Peggy set a fast pace, her heels _click-clacking_ down the sidewalk at a speed an army could march to. But Steve still had to hold back to keep level with her, and he was reminded, once again, that there was nobody else in the world quite like him.

Would his kids inherit his new genetic makeup? The thought hit him like a streetcar, and he stumbled over his own feet. Peggy glanced at him, but didn't slow down. Steve quickly recovered and caught up to her, but his thoughts strayed to a place they'd never visited before.

 _Kids_. He'd always known Bucky would find a pretty dame to settle down with and they'd have a family so large they could form their own baseball team, and carry on the Barnes' family traditions. The thought of seeing a half-dozen mini-Buckys and mini-Mary-Anns grow up had occasionally brought a smile to Steve's lips, and he'd pictured himself there in some sort of 'distant uncle' role.

Never before had he imagined he'd have that for himself. His family had always been small. Just him and his mom, and a grandma he'd seen all of twice in his life. Bucky and his siblings were the closest thing Steve had to brothers and sisters… but they weren't _his_. They belonged to each other, not to Steve. The thought of having his own children… it was completely alien to him.

Now, he had to think about it. He wasn't sure whether it was too soon to consider a family, but most dames wanted one. They saw babies and did that whole broody cooing thing. But if Steve's potential children might inherit his 'gifts'… well, it could be awkward. How the heck did you even raise a child who could probably lift three of his classmates and run faster than a motor car? Granted, there was some excellent sports potential, but would his children also become a target for military recruiters or America's enemies?

Did Peggy even want children? He glanced at her face, pale and pinched against a winter breeze so cold it was making her eyes stream. When she noticed him watching her, she asked, "Do I what?"

Steve's heart damn near leapt right out of his chest, and he stumbled again, this time over a raised paving stone he'd been too distracted to notice. He licked his cold, dry lips, and asked, "Umm… what?"

"In the _Fiddle,_ you were about to ask me something."

Oh, that. Thank God! She hadn't somehow managed to read his mind and discern his thoughts about whether she had thought about having children in the future. Of course she hadn't read his mind. That sort of thing wasn't possible. _Idiot._

"Oh yeah, I was, umm… going to ask…" How could he ask her out now? His mind was still reeling from the whole idea of having super-children. "Do you… ah… like your job?"

He could tell by the way both of her eyebrows lifted up that his question had caught her by surprise. He decided to elaborate, before she managed to read the question the wrong way.

"I just mean, you're a great soldier. Operative. Agent. Whatever the proper name is for what you do. Hell, with your experience, you ought to be _leading_ the Commandos, not just acting as our liaison."

"Do you really think so?"

There was such hope and excitement carried by her voice and bubbling behind her eyes that, although disappointed with himself for chickening out on the date request, he was glad he'd asked the question he went with in its place.

"I've never meant anything more in my life," he said.

Peggy grabbed his arm without warning and pulled him closer to her; close enough to hear her quiet breath, and see the slight dilation and constriction of her eyes. His heart leapt into his mouth as the scent of her perfume tickled his nose and flooded his brain.

"Eyes on the street, Captain," she said, gesturing to a lamppost he'd very nearly walked right into. She let go of his arm, but the weight of her touch still lingered. "And to answer your question, yes, I like my job. I must admit that, at first, I was a little miffed that I'd been given a position that seemed little more than messenger pigeon, relaying orders and instructions to you and your men. But now I realise that in this war, there are no small parts to play. I may not get out in the field as much as I like, but on an operational level, I'm better equipped and more experienced to handle the organisation of your missions. Going into the field, you need to know that your intel is sound and your contacts will be in place. And coming out of it, you need to know that your extraction plan has been scheduled and we're ready to receive you back home." She gave him a warm smile. "On the bright side, at least I'm doing something more important than making Colonel Phillips' coffee."

The dig at Private Lorraine was not lost on him.

At the SSR's headquarters, they took the creaky service elevator down to the command centre. Steve had expected to step into chaos; men would be shouting for maps, officers would be making strategic plans, and everybody would be focused on striking at HYDRA.

When the elevator stopped, and the door opened, there was no chaos. There wasn't even a hubbub. Two or three people were manning their desks, but they were administrators, not officers. And Colonel Phillips wasn't poised ready to give an inspiring speech and send the Commandos straight into the field. He wasn't even in the room.

"It seems unusually quiet," he whispered. Why was he whispering? He cleared his throat. "Is it normally like the graveyard shift in the late afternoon?"

"No. But perhaps there's a good reason. Come on, let's go and see the colonel."

They found Phillips in his office, and the resignation on his face quickly changed to irritation when he spotted Steve looming behind Peggy.

"Rogers? What in the blazes are you doing here?"

Steve opened his mouth, but Peggy got there first. "I asked him to come, Colonel. I thought that with you summoning me from my evening off, you must have a solid lead on Schmidt."

Holding his breath, Steve waiting for the chewing out. For the, _"You aren't paid to_ think _, Agent Carter,_ _"_ or the _"If I wanted Rogers here, I would've sent for him myself."_ But the dressing-down was suspiciously absent. Instead of giving both of them a piece of his mind, he gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Sit down, Agent Carter."

"Sir?"

"I have news, and you're going to want to be sitting when I give it to you."

"Is it my parents? Are they okay?" The crack in her voice told Steve just how much her parents meant to her. She always tried to be strong, to be tough, unshakable… Steve wanted to reach out, to comfort her in some way, but he didn't dare. He'd probably do the wrong thing. Hurt her with his stupidly strong hands.

"To the best of my knowledge, your parents are fine. Now, are you gonna sit, or not?"

"The last time somebody asked me to sit down, it was to tell me that my brother was dead." She lifted her chin and straightened her back. "Whatever it is, just tell me."

"Very well. Agent Carter, your brother is alive."

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: A big thank you to all readers and reviewers who're still with me. I hope you're still enjoying the story. I know things haven't been as exciting as the adventures of the 107th, but that will be changing shortly. On another note, for the next 2 weeks, I'm on Spaceman Annual Family Holiday^TM, therefore there will be no new chapters or PMs until I return on Sunday 3rd June. On the bright side, I have just over 2 weeks of annual leave from work in June, and I'm setting myself the personal challenge of writing 15 chapters in 18 days. I managed it easily last summer, so let's see if I can do the same again this year._


	93. Best Laid Plans

We Were Soldiers

 _93\. Best Laid Plans_

Peggy reached for the chair, and didn't so much _sit_ , as _crumple_. Steve took a step forward, ready to catch her in case she fainted. He really didn't think she was the fainting type, but her face was so pale that fainting was a definite possibility.

"If that's a joke, Colonel, it's a mean-spirited one. Michael was killed in action three years ago."

"It's no joke. At oh-six-hundred today, one Lieutenant Andrew Cromwell arrived back in England after a harrowing journey from Poland, where he claims Captain Michael Carter, and six other British soldiers, are labouring in a Nazi stalag."

Phillips slid a file across the desk, and Peggy reached out with shaking hands to open it. There were photographs inside, of an emaciated man wearing threadbare civilian clothing. There was a typed account of the journey, and—in a separate wallet—a collection of hand-written letters, some so dirty and tattered they were barely legible. Peggy pulled one out, and began to read.

" _Dear Peggy,_

 _If you_ _'re reading this letter, it means Lieutenant Cromwell made it home, and years of careful planning has come to fruition. I know that rescue may come too late for me and my men, but I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about how I left things between us. Whilst I don't regret the things I said, for I do believe you're made for more than being somebody's housewife, I do regret how I phrased them, and that I left us both angry._

 _I just want you to know that whatever happens, I am proud of you. And if being a wife and mother is truly what you want, then I know you_ _'ll be the best wife and mother in the whole world. You never do anything by half measure, so whether you're breaking codes or raising children, I know you'll be giving it your all._

 _I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me, and by God_ _'s grace, we may see each other again one day._

 _All my love, Michael._ _"_

Steve heard the drops of water splashing on the paper before he saw Peggy's tears. She quickly ran her sleeve across her eyes, then turned her gaze to Phillips' face. For once, the colonel's expression had softened.

"This is Michael's handwriting," Peggy said, holding the letter up. "Years. He's been a prisoner for years. And all this time, we thought him dead. Colonel, we _have_ to put together a rescue mission."

"Ordinarily, I'd tell you that your brother and his men are being held in a secure, well-guarded facility within the deepest heart of enemy territory and to forget about any rescue plans—"

"But?"

" _But_ , from what Lieutenant Cromwell describes, it sounds like your brother's team is being held in a HYDRA facility, and it just so happens that taking down HYDRA is the SSR's main goal." Phillips leant forward, resting his elbows atop his desk. The craggy frown returned to his face. "That's not to say a rescue is going to be easy. Far as I can tell, the place they're being held isn't one of those marked on Captain Rogers' map, so it's probably not a primary production site for whatever Schmidt's building, and there are probably a dozen better, less-defended targets we could take a shot at right now. But if this place isn't on Rogers' map, we need to find out how it fits into Schmidt's operation. Rogers, if Carter can come up with a rescue plan that _doesn_ _'t_ involve the death of everybody involved, are you and your team up for this?"

Steve stood tall and saluted. "Absolutely, Colonel."

"Then go with Carter. Lieutenant Cromwell is being treated in the hospital for a whole variety of conditions, but the doctors think he's gonna make it. Get as much intel from him as you can, and don't come back until you've put together a sound rescue plan with a reliable exit strategy."

Agent Carter was out the door before Steve could even open his mouth. He hurried after her, and caught up with her as she reached the elevator. They rode it in a silence in which he could _feel_ the tension and desperation rolling off her so strongly that it made _him_ tense just standing next to her.

Outside, she strode down the street, wearing an expression of determination so fierce that men walking towards her leapt out of her path as if stung by some invisible force. Until now, Steve had no idea that somebody in heels could move so quickly.

"Agent Carter, slow down!" he called, almost jogging to keep up.

She didn't. But she did glance at him over her shoulder as she replied. "Every moment that I tarry is a moment in which my brother comes a step closer to death in some HYDRA work-camp."

"I know, and we'll get him back. I—"

She whirled on the spot, finger raised in admonishment, just like his third grade teacher used to do. "So help me, Steve, if you say 'I promise,' I might actually punch you."

He took a step back. In her current mood, she might punch him anyway, just to let some of the anger out. "I was only going to point out that back in Italy, when I heard Bucky had been captured, I did exactly the same thing. You were the one who told me to slow down. To do things smart, not fast. I know exactly how you feel, and if I had my way, we'd already be en route to Poland. But let's do this right. Let's take our time to plan things here so that when we get there, we've got all our variables covered."

Her shoulders slumped, the anger and desperation fading from her face. It was something else Steve understood. A feeling to cling to in the hopes of keeping out guilt and hopelessness. Anger was easier to deal with. More useful. It kept a person going. Helped them keep taking those steps.

Without warning, Peggy crumpled. She sank to the sidewalk, face buried in her hands as she sobbed uncontrollably. Lacking any better idea, Steve crouched down beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. He wanted to do more, to pull her close to him and hold her tight, tell her that together they would fix this. Together they would make it right. But he couldn't. He hadn't earned that right yet. And he was still _Captain Rogers_ when they were on-duty. Passers-by looked at them with sympathy, but nobody stopped. Crying women were probably a common sight in England, since the start of the war.

"I'm sorry," she said at last. When she pulled her hands away from her face, her eye-makeup was smudged and her cheeks were red and puffy, but she was still the most beautiful woman in the world. "I'm not normally so… so…"

"Hey, you don't have anything to explain. There are some situations in which a person—man, woman, soldier or civilian—is allowed to go to pieces, and this definitely counts. Hell, if I just heard that my Mom was still alive, I'd've cried every drop of water out of my body by now. Tears don't make you weak, they make you human."

He offered his arm, and helped her regain her feet.

"You know what the worst thing about this is?" she asked. He shook his head. "I keep thinking that it's a mistake. That some other Michael Carter wrote a letter to his sister called Peggy, and that we'll get him back, only to discover it's not _my_ Michael. I want so desperately to have hope, but what if it really is a mistake, or we're too late, or—"

"Don't be afraid to have hope. It's the one thing we have that the Nazis or HYDRA can't take away. When hope is gone… well, that's when the war is well and truly lost."

"You're right." She straightened up and brushed some of the dust from the sidewalk off her coat. "Michael's counting on me, and I need to have hope for the both of us. I just hope we're not too late."

"Then let's not delay any longer. The sooner we come up with a plan, the sooner we can save your brother." And the sooner they could put an end to Schmidt, once and for all.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

It took every ounce of self control that Peggy possessed to keep from racing down the hospital corridor to the room where the triage nurse had told her Lieutenant Cromwell was recovering. Every ounce of self control to walk rather than run, to project purpose rather than desperation. It was the longest corridor of Peggy's life.

Steve hovered close behind, but he'd been quiet since entering the hospital. Though he'd never admit it, he didn't like hospitals. He got that tense, hunched-up look whenever he stepped inside one, even when he'd been visiting Sergeant Barnes during his convalescence. She supposed she couldn't blame him, not really. His mother had worked and died inside a hospital. A place of healing had become a place of death. She wouldn't like hospitals either, if she'd had to watch somebody she loved die in one.

At the door to Lieutenant Cromwell's room, she stopped and took a deep breath. Here was somebody who'd seen Michael as recently as a week ago. If Cromwell could make it out of Schmidt's work camp alive, so could Michael.

She knocked, and pushed the door open without waiting for an answer. The smell of iodine hit her like a punch to the nose. The man lying beneath the covers of the bed looked more corpse than living body. The years of toil and deprivation had taken their toll on cheekbones that protruded at harsh angles, lanky, patchy hair that no amount of washing could make shine, and cracked lips that held teeth in the early stages of decay. The man's painfully thin arms were covered in scaly, flaky skin, and when he opened his eyes, it was like looking at somebody on death's door.

The thought of Michael in a similar—or worse—condition filled her eyes with tears. She quickly blinked them away, and stepped forward to introduce herself.

"Lieutenant Cromwell, I'm Agent Peggy Carter, with the SSR, and this is Captain Steve Rogers. We need to ask you some questions."

A smile flickered across the man's face, and a quiet laughter bubbled from his lips.

"Do you find something amusing, Lieutenant?" she asked. It wouldn't be the first time a man had laughed at her uniform. Most laughed behind her back, when they thought they couldn't hear, but a few had laughed to her face.

Cromwell's response came as a scratchy croak. "Just thinking about what the Captain would say, if he could see you now. He was sure you'd be playing the part of dutiful housewife. He'd be so proud to see you in uniform."

A fresh set of tears threatened to spill. This time, she didn't bother trying to keep them back. No doubt she'd be hearing more that would make her cry, by the end of the interview, and putting on a strong front was exhausting.

"It sounds like you know Michael well."

"You spend three years living with and slaving beside a man, and you get to know him pretty well. The chain of command doesn't mean very much, in a _stalag_."

"How was he, when you last saw him?"

"As good as a man can be, in that place." Cromwell winced, and rubbed at a bruise on his arm. "He's exhausted, we all were, but his spirit lives."

Peggy's heart fluttered inside her chest. Thank God Michael hadn't given up! So long as he was determined to carry on, there was a chance.

"I need to ask you some questions about the work camp and about your escape." She pulled out her notebook and pen. "And I need you to be as honest as possible with me. If there's any chance of pulling off a rescue mission, I need to know exact details."

"Rescue?" Cromwell scoffed. "No offence, Agent Carter, but there's no chance of a rescue."

"Then what was the purpose of your escape, if not to help enact a rescue plan?"

"To let the world know we were still alive. And to provide intel on Nazi mining operations. Trying to organise a rescue… well, it's madness."

Peggy gripped her notebook tightly—less chance of her throwing it at Cromwell. Telling herself that the man had been through a lot, and much had changed in the three years since he'd been captured, she schooled her voice to patience.

"Do not underestimate the resources and capabilities of the SSR, Lieutenant. We're no ordinary army outfit. We have eyes and ears all over enemy and occupied territories, and access to technology beyond your imagination. Believe me when I tell you that we can and _will_ rescue those men."

"You don't understand." Cromwell tried to push himself up in his bed, but his ordeals had weakened him; he only managed to shuffle up by a couple of inches. His eyes, though… there was a hardness in them that Peggy had not seen since France, when a very sick Sergeant Barnes had been convinced Nazi spies were trying to kill him. "The _stalag_ lies twenty miles outside Toruń, in the heart of enemy territory. The whole country teems with Nazis and their spies. There are checkpoints at the border of every town, and a _Gestapo_ interrogation centre in every city.

"The _stalag_ itself sits atop a mountain of iron ore, surrounded on three sides by unclimbable ravines. The only way in to the camp is by a narrow road which creeps up the side of the mountain, and if you were to get that far, you would come to an electric chain link fence, twelve feet high, which runs around the entire camp. You would be approaching an enemy who would've seen you coming from a mile away, and who possess weapons capable of disintegrating a man into nothingness with one shot. The camp is impenetrable."

"And yet you managed to get out."

"I am one man. We dug beneath the electric fence, and I managed to sneak away and get a good head start before my absence was noticed. I had a change of clothes and falsified papers waiting for me, and my mother is Polish, so I learnt to speak it fluently growing up. One man might sneak out, with a suitable distraction. Forty could not."

"Forty? When you were debriefed, you said there were only seven others left from your unit."

"There are. But the Captain wouldn't leave the Jewish prisoners behind. None of us would. Even if it was possible to sneak in and find my team and extract them, they wouldn't abandon their fellow prisoners to death. If you can't liberate the whole camp, there's no point even trying. And liberating a camp in the heart of Nazi territory is impossible. A suicide mission."

Steve cleared his throat. It was the first sound he'd made since entering the hospital. He had his notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other, and a topographical sketch of a mountain and work camp had started to take shape on the open pages.

"How deep is the ravine that surrounds the camp, and how narrow is the path up there?"

"The ravine is deep enough that I almost died climbing down it. A river runs through the bottom of the east side, too swift and deep to wade across in winter. Downstream, the river opens out onto a flood plain, but by the camp, it creates an impassable barrier. The road itself is so narrow that vehicles must go up one at a time, in convoy formation. The rough-terrain vehicles such as jeeps and tanks do not fare too badly, but the lorries must go more carefully and slowly; the road is only just wide enough for them."

"They have tanks?"

Cromwell shook his head. "No. Sometimes, tanks will escort the outgoing shipments of ore, but there are none stationed permanently at the camp."

"What about guard-posts?"

Peggy could see wheels inside Steve's mind turning as he approached the camp from all angles. He might not have very much experience—not yet—but he'd clearly read all the books Peggy had given to him on strategy and warfare.

"There are four, spaced equidistantly around the perimeter of the camp. They are manned all day and night, by pairs of guards who operate in rotating eight-hour shifts."

Steve's pencil scritch-scratched furiously over the page. "What else can you tell me about the layout of the camp?"

Cromwell closed his eyes, and for several minutes, he was silent. When he spoke, it was in a whisper so quiet that Peggy had to strain to hear. Steve had no such issues.

"When I got out of that place, I told myself it was over. That I'd never have to go back. But I see it. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. In my dreams, I walk it, breathe it, _live_ it. In some ways, it's like I never left."

Across the other side of the bed, Steve flinched. Peggy raised a questioning eyebrow, but his focus was on Cromwell, and he didn't see her silent question. Cromwell continued before she had chance to speak.

"The access gate opens up approximately in the centre of the perimeter. To the west are the Nazi barracks and their munitions store. Behind that is a garage, where they keep and service a couple of jeeps and the lorries which take away the ore once it's been extracted. On the east side of the camp are the prisoner barracks, and set further back is the mine entrance."

"How deep do the mines go?"

"They are extensive," Cromwell confirmed. "But the Nazis didn't let us explore them freely. Each six-man team had their own designated work area. They tend to send the Jews down into the more dangerous levels. But if you're wondering whether any of the mine shafts lead to the outside of the fence; no. They're all dead ends."

Steve tapped his pencil thoughtfully on his chin, and Peggy jumped in with a question of her own.

"In your initial report, you stated that these Nazis are unlike any others; that they wear strange armour and use deadly weapons. Have you ever heard the name _Johann Schmidt_ , or seen him in the camp in person?"

Cromwell shook his head, and Steve continued.

"How many prisoners are in the camp? And how many guards?"

"Between forty and fifty prisoners at any given time. It's a fairly small work camp, as far as these things go. Space is at a premium, because of the camp's elevated location. They only bring in more when a few die. As for guards… there used to be about thirty, split between the rotating shifts on the guard posts, and overseeing work in the mines. But just before I left, we got word that an additional company was being sent to bolster the camp's defences. That's why I left when I did. We knew it was now or never."

"I wonder why they sent more guards to such a small camp."

"Probably because of Krausberg," Peggy ventured. "After his defeat there, Schmidt likely gave an order fortify all his facilities. They probably started with those most remote, and most at risk of attack. The _stalag_ where Michael is being kept is right in the middle of HYDRA and Nazi forces, therefore a lower priority."

"Anything else you can tell us about the camp?" Steve prompted Cromwell. "Shift changes, work patterns, weaknesses…"

"There's little more to tell. The mining goes on 'round the clock. Daylight doesn't matter when you're digging underground; it's all done by lamplight. The guards rotate at oh-six hundred, fourteen hundred, and twenty-two hundred. The prisoners work twelve-hour shifts; the change-over is always at nine o'clock, to prevent any slipping away during the changing of the guard. We're only fed once per day, at eight in the morning, and it's usually some sort of meat stew and sauerkraut."

Peggy glanced over at the map Steve had drawn. Pertinent locations were labelled in his spindly handwriting. The picture was grim.

"What do you think, Captain Rogers?" she asked.

Steve pursed his lips as his eyes roved the pencilled-in fence. "I think we need to talk to the rest of the Commandos. This is going to require some creative thinking."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky was ninety-eight percent sober, because the English beer Dugan had handed to him wasn't that strong, and because some instinct told him something was going down, so he hadn't drunk that much of it. In fact, all the Commandos had nursed their drinks, so that when a second Private showed up, requesting the whole team double-time it to the SSR's headquarters, they were all ready for duty.

Half an hour later, they'd been fully briefed and were now sequestered around Steve's notebook, where a top-down map of the HYDRA work camp had been drawn. Seeing it brought uncomfortable knots to Bucky's stomach. At least this time, he'd be on the right side of the fence. He'd be the liberator, not the prisoner. He'd get a chance to do for other men what Steve had done for him. He wasn't going to leave a single man behind in that _stalag_.

Agent Carter was doing better than Bucky would've imagined. Only the way she chewed her thumbnail gave any indication that she was tense or nervous, and he could sympathise entirely. If his brother or sisters were in that camp, he storm it single-handedly to get them out.

"Ideas?" Steve asked the group.

One by one, the Commandos chipped in with their suggestions.

"Parachuting is out," said Falsworth. "One strong gust and we'd be plunged into that ravine."

"I can't believe you actually sound disappointed about that," said Jones.

"A frontal assault would be crazy," said Dugan, twirling the corner of his moustache around his finger. "Naturally, I'm all for it."

"I bet I could scale that ravine," said Morita.

"And sit outside the electric fence shaking your first?" Jones quipped.

"And here we get to the crux of the issue," Steve spoke up. "First, they'd see a frontal attack coming. Second, if we tried to sneak in, we'd be thwarted by that electric fence. Third, even if I could jump the fence and make it into the communications room where the electricity switch is located, by then the sentries in the guard-posts would've spotted me and opened fire. With no way to warn the prisoners of what's happening, they might run out or be hit in the crossfire. Short of getting ourselves captured, I don't see any way of us getting into that camp."

His words brought a memory crashing back into Bucky's mind. "Maybe that's not such a bad idea," he said. "The old, _'Hey, let me in, I've got prisoners'_ routine has worked against HYDRA before."

"You mean like back in France?" Jones asked. "All those comms bunkers the 107th was sent to take?"

"Exactly."

Dugan snorted loudly. "This ain't like France, Princess. For a start, we're not talking about some lightly fortified communications bunker; this is a _stalag_ , full of heavily armed guards, in the middle of Nazi territory."

"So was Krausberg," Bucky pointed out. "And Steve got us out _on his own_. This time, he'll have us helping." He knew Dugan was just trying to point out the obstacles they'd have to come, but there wasn't a chance in Hell Bucky was gonna leave those men to work to their deaths in a HYDRA camp.

"What happened in France?" asked Morita.

Agent Carter stepped forward, more composed now that they were talking missions and not missing family. "The SSR was tasked with capturing a range of HYDRA communications bunkers spanning the south of France. It was a significant part of Schmidt's communications networks, and it's one of the reasons why we're now able to intercept so much intelligence about his operations. The 107th, supported by the 69th, employed a range of tactics to achieve their missions, including a mission in which they pretended to be 'captured' by one of our German double-agents acting as an SS officer."

"I still remember how Nurse Klein painted your faces with bruises from that kit of Stark's," Jones said, a grin plastered across his face. "You looked like you'd gone ten rounds with a pair of fists."

"Which gives us another problem," said Dugan. "Back in France, we had those German guys on our side." He stuck his thumb out at Falsworth. "I don't trust Monty's German accent, and it's not like we have a bunch of Krauts just sitting around waiting to be called up for missions."

"What about Kaufmann's team?" It was the first time Stark had spoken since the meeting had been called, and all eyes in the room swivelled in his direction.

"Who's Kaufmann?" asked Steve.

"That," said Carter, shooting a malicious glare at Stark, "is classified."

"How can it be classified? We all work for the SSR."

"Even if it wasn't classified," Carter continued, "Kaufmann's team are scientists, not soldiers. I doubt any of them have ever held a gun before in their lives."

Stark slid off the table he'd been sitting on and took centre stage. As he spoke, he ticked off points on his fingers. "We wouldn't need somebody to fight, just to pretend to be one of Schmidt's cronies. We can use the comms network to intercept HYDRA authorisation protocols, thus paving the way for an infiltration team to access the camp. Once inside, our tame German could spread word of the plan to the prisoners, to ensure they stay out of the way while the action goes down. And finally, we may need German or Polish personnel to help get us out of the area after any rescue has taken place."

The glare on Carter's face was replaced by a look of speculation. "We _do_ have several Polish Army companies training with us. Some made it out before Poland was captured. And I _suppose_ a true German would stand a much better chance of getting us inside than somebody just pretending."

"Uh, _us_?" Steve asked.

Agent Carter whirled on the spot to face him. "I am, of course, going with you. This is my brother we're talking about."

"Of course." _Nicely recovered, Rogers,_ Bucky thought to his friend. "But I think Mr. Stark should stay here and co-ordinate the effort from this side of the line. He's too valuable an asset to risk falling into enemy hands."

"Damn right I am." Stark puffed up with pride. "And I suspect that with one or more of Kaufmann's team out in the field, I'll have to stand in." A shifty-eyed look suddenly came over him. "To uh, work on the top secret stuff we're not supposed to talk about."

"You can keep your secrets, Stark," said Steve. He turned to face Carter, and that cold hard knot, what he'd come to think of as the _Krausberg knot_ returned to Bucky's stomach. "How long do you need?"

"Twenty-four hours," she replied. "To pull in all the resources we'll require, submit the plan to Phillips for approval, and make the necessary travel arrangements… twenty-four hours."

"We'll be ready. Won't we, men?"

A round of "Aye!" and "Yes, Captain," and "Wahoo!" filled the room. Bucky merely nodded. If they were going up against HYDRA in their own territory, he knew what kind of mission this would be. A _take no prisoners_ kind. He was going to have a lot of cleaning up to do.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The door bearing the name plaque _Agent F. Pollard_ was at the back of some pokey little house that served as one of the SSR's off-site offices. Phillips didn't believe in centralisation, and since Brooklyn, Peggy couldn't blame him. Too many eggs in one basket were too easily broken. At least if the SSR's main headquarters took a hit, Pollard and the other remote SSR agents could continue their work. No enemy force would ever bring the SSR completely to its knees.

Outside the door, Peggy stopped and straightened her jacket, then smoothed a couple of wrinkles from her skirt. She hadn't seen Francis since their ill-fated dinner, and she'd half expected him to get in touch over Christmas. But it seemed he was being true to his words, and moving on with his life. It was for the best.

She knocked on the door and waited for him to shout 'come in' before entering. When she stepped into the tiny room, he smiled and rose.

"Peggy, this is a surprise." He gestured to the rickety chair opposite his desk. She took it, glad she hadn't brought anyone else with her; even one extra person would not have fit comfortably into the room. "What brings you all the way out here?"

"I need to see Kaufmann."

"Kaufmann and his team are at a critical stage of their research. They wouldn't take kindly to interruptions now."

"It's very important."

"Oh?" He steepled his fingers together beneath his chin as he ran his gaze over her face. "What's this about, Peg? In all the time Kaufmann's been working for us, you've never come and asked to see him. I know you don't trust him."

She took a deep breath before speaking the words that she herself scarcely dared to believe. "It's about Michael, Francis. He's still alive, and being kept as a slave labourer by HYDRA."

Francis reached forward, as if to touch her hand, but pulled back at the last minute. His chair creaked beneath his weight as he leant back. "My God, Peggy… I can't imagine what you're going through."

"And I can't imagine what Michael is going through. That's why I need to speak to Kaufmann. Our rescue plan may hinge on his people."

"Of course. I'll arrange a visit straight away and I'll drive you there myself. Will you give me a couple of minutes to make a phone call? My car's parked in the side street, if you want to wait for me there."

Though he didn't work for the SIS anymore, there was still a lot of the SIS in him. Access to Kaufmann was restricted out of necessity; the men guarding him wouldn't let anyone in who hadn't made an appointment via Francis. Another of Phillips' ideas. Decentralisation of intelligence. If one part of the organisation was compromised, safeguards would ensure the whole thing didn't come crashing down.

She found the car easily enough, and didn't have long to wait. Francis joined her less than a minute later, and gestured for her to get into the vehicle.

They drove to the safehouse in silence, which gave Peggy time to think about the things she'd put aside out of necessity. Images of Michael ran fleetingly through her mind… grinning mischievously as a boy, standing proud in his uniform as a man, and wasting away as a HYDRA prisoner. If she found him… _when_ she found him… would he hate her, for thinking him dead? For giving up on him so easily? For not trying harder to find him?

Three years. Almost three years of his life had been lost because she'd believed it when the Army had told her Michael had died. Had their places been reversed, Michael would not have accepted it. He would not have given up on her. He wouldn't have mourned her, then put her aside and moved on with his life. He would've done more. Just as she should've done.

Was it a coincidence, that Michael was a prisoner of Schmidt? Did Schmidt even know who toiled away in one of his work-camps, or was he oblivious to the potential pawn in his metaphorical hands?

Anger and guilt welled up inside. She tried to push them away, to hide them beneath brave lies of _it will be okay, I_ _'ll get him back, I'll bring him home_ —she even tried biting her lip, using pain as a barrier. But the emotions bubbling inside were too strong, and she was powerless to stop the sob that escaped from her lips, and the tears that spilled from her eyes, blurring the streets and buildings passing by.

A vague white form appeared in front of her. "Don't worry, it's clean," said Francis. Peggy reached out and accepted the handkerchief, using it to dab the tears from her eyes. In truth, she wanted to ball the thing up, stuff it into her mouth, and scream into it. But she couldn't lose her head. She had to stay strong. For Michael.

"Thank you," she said, once she'd recovered enough to speak. She handed the handkerchief back, but he merely shook his head.

"Keep it. Just in case."

On the verge of telling him she was finished with going to pieces, a horrifying new thought hit her; one that brought fresh tears to her eyes. "How am I going to tell my parents? And what if it's too late? What if he's already… How will I tell them that he spent the last years of his life in a work-camp?"

"You mustn't think like that, Peggy," he said, stealing a glance at her face before focusing once more on the busy road. "You can't let fear and doubt control you. You've got to believe that Michael's alive and that you're going to find him. I know you; you deal in _what is_ , not _what if_. Don't let doubt get the better of you."

"You're right. Thank you, Francis." How lucky she was, to have sensible men in her life. Men like Steve, and Francis, and Michael, who saw her strengths even when she was feeling weak.

The laboratory where Kaufmann's men worked was located in one of Kensington's large town-houses. From the outside, it looked nothing more than what it seemed. Only a select few individuals knew that the building was actually an SOE safehouse where the German scientists lived and worked. Kaufmann had his own residence, a few streets away, but he spent most of his free time—when he wasn't being entertained—'overseeing' his team's efforts.

Peggy was out of the car as soon as it pulled up outside the safehouse. Francis led the way up the steps to the front door, then held it open for her to pass through. Inside the airy hallway, two men waited. Dressed in modest grey suits, they nodded at Francis, and stepped aside to grant him access to the rest of the house.

As they walked down the corridor towards the laboratory that had been installed in what was once a large dining room, Peggy battled her nerves. The plan, such as it was, was reliant on deception and subterfuge once they reached the work camp where Michael and the others were being held. Their chances of success were greatly increased with an actual German to talk them in through the front gates.

Kaufmann was waiting for them outside the lab. Though he'd been exiled in England for nine years, Peggy hadn't once seen him wearing anything other than his German army uniform. It was as if the man didn't _know_ how to be anything other than a soldier, even when he had no physical war to fight in. How sad, to think that the former General had nothing else to live for.

"Agent Pollard," said Kaufmann, affecting a stiff bow. "What an unexpected surprise. Have you come to check up on us? You know that Project Lazarus is still months away from completion."

"Actually, it's Agent Carter who needs to speak with you."

"Oh?"

Peggy stepped forward and put on her best mask of professionalism. She couldn't afford to be seen as emotional now, no matter how justified it was. "General Kaufmann, we need the help of you and your men. We've just received intelligence about a HYDRA facility using captured Allied soldiers as slave labour."

Kaufmann shrugged. "All HYDRA facilities use captured Allied soldiers as slave labour. Schmidt cares nothing for the rules of war, or the rights of captured enemy combatants. He will work the prisoners until they die from exhaustion, then replace them with new prisoners. But you already know this, do you not? The men you freed from Krausberg will have confirmed this for you."

"Of course, but this facility is one we've only just learnt about. It wasn't on the map we took from Krausberg."

Another shrug graced Kaufmann's shoulders. "If you are asking for intelligence, I have none. I was never privy to Schmidt's scheming."

"Actually, we already have intelligence on the facility." _That_ wiped the self-important expression of disdain from Kaufmann's face. "It's a mining camp—Schmidt's after the iron ore."

"Hmm. This makes sense. From what I hear, iron is becoming a rare commodity, and with the difficulties of bringing it safely out of Sweden, it may be that Schmidt has taken matters into his own hands. But I do not see what this has to do with my men and I."

"We have a plan to infiltrate the facility and rescue the prisoners, but we'll need a German to get us inside."

"And where is this facility?"

"Toruń."

Peggy answered in as neutral a tone as possible, but Kaufmann burst into laughter. "I did not know you had a sense of humour, Agent Carter!" he chuckled. "Poland! As easy to invade Germany itself!"

"This is no laughing matter, General," said Francis. Peggy wanted to both punch him and hug him for managing such a calm tone of voice in the face of Kaufmann's belittling laughter. "We need to put a stop to Schmidt's operations."

"We're at an advantage here," she continued. "One of our soldiers managed to escape from the place, and he's given us detailed intel on the approach, layout and defences. Our chances of success are high."

"You'd have to be insane to even try," said Kaufmann. "Poland is in the heart of German territory. It would not be like your stroll through France."

"I know that." Her words came out through gritted teeth. Kaufmann had, several times, expressed doubts over her abilities. "And we'll come up with a suitable plan. But once we're in there, we'll have an advantage. Nobody, not Schmidt, not Hitler, not the Gestapo, will be expecting an incursion into such heavily fortified German territory. We'll have the element of surprise. All we need is one of your men to pose as a guard escorting captured allied prisoners."

"Impossible." Kaufmann's wave of dismissal was worthy of royalty. "Our work is too important. I cannot afford for any of my people to leave their research."

"Mr. Stark has offered to step in as a replacement," Peggy offered. Kaufmann's face was forming a scowl even before she'd finished speaking.

"Howard Stark is bad for moral. He belittles my men constantly, and purposely gets their names wrong. He is of more help to us when he is not here."

"That could also be arranged."

"It would be safer to attack one of Schmidt's other bases," said Kaufmann. "Why is your mind so set on this one?"

There was no getting around it. She would have to tell him why the liberation of the prisoners of this specific facility was so personal to her. Otherwise, he had no incentive to help. Not that he would necessarily say 'yes' even if she told the truth.

"Because," she said, "the prisoners in question are soldiers of the British Army. And one of them is my brother."

"Ahh. Now I understand. But why did you not tell me this to begin with?"

"Would it have made you more inclined to help us?"

"No, but I would have respected your honesty."

Francis stepped forward, his tone sweeter than the cups of coffee Private Lorraine made for the colonel. "I'm sure if you were to help us out, Lord Kendrick would be grateful. Grateful enough to agree to an evening listening to the London Symphony Orchestra. Perhaps followed by an intimate dinner."

Bribery. How low they had so quickly sunk. But if that's what it took to secure German assistance…

Kaufmann rubbed his chin thoughtfully, a faraway look in his eyes. "Very well. I will speak to my men, and should one of them volunteer, then we have an agreement. But I won't force them to put themselves in harm's way. If non volunteer, then you will have to make alternative arrangements."

"We can agree to that," said Francis, while Peggy's mind screamed _that_ _'s not good enough!_ No doubt Kaufmann would only dig his heels in further if she tried to insist. Instead, she attempted her best smile, and said, "I look forward to hearing from you soon."

God help her, if Kaufmann's dithering put Michael's life in jeopardy, he'd be spending the rest of the war inside a very small cell. One with no intimate dinners or London Symphony Orchestra.

Back outside, Peggy breathed in a deep lungful of fresh London air. Not that London air was particularly fresh. But dealing with Kaufmann always left her feeling dirty. She didn't think she'd do very well, if she had Francis' job.

"Do you think he'll say yes?" she asked her old friend.

"Probably. I've never known him say 'no' to Lord Kendrick."

"I hope the 'yes' comes quickly. God knows how Michael and the rest of his men are faring in that _stalag_."

Francis stopped as if struck by a sudden thought. "You're going on the mission, aren't you?"

"Yes." How well he knew her. Or how lucky his guesses were. "I have to."

"Promise me you'll be careful. I'd say, _don_ _'t take any unnecessary risks_ , but this is you we're talking about."

"All the risks I take are _very_ necessary," she countered. It wasn't as if she was some gung-ho soldier with a rifle and no common sense. "But I will be careful."

"Good. I don't wanna have to be the one to tell your parents that we lost their daughter trying to save their son."

She reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder. "You won't. I'm bringing Michael home, no matter what it takes. We're going to be a family again."


	94. The Road to Hell

We Were Soldiers

 _94\. The Road to Hell_

The mood was so heavy that Bucky could feel it pressing down on his shoulders, squeezing his lungs. The inside of the small blockade runner, _S.S. Tycho_ , was reminiscent of the bowls of the _Monticello_ , albeit without hammocks, and on a much smaller scale. Dernier's stomach proved as unsettled on the ocean as it had in the air; Carter had banished him to an astern seat, as far from her as humanly possible. A couple of the other passengers were looking a little green, too.

The smell of vomit and the tense mood aside, he was actually enjoying being on a ship again. Each roll of the waves reminded him of his time on the _Monty_. Those had been good times. Simple times. Free times. Times when his spirit had been buoyed by hope and adventure, unburdened by the weight of loss.

"Hey."

Steve's greeting pulled him from a memory of playing poker in the 107th's area of the _Monticello_ in an attempt to distract Hawkins from his sea-sickness. At a gesture from his friend, Bucky scooted over on the bench, allowing Steve to sit beside him. Whatever it was he wanted to talk about, it must be serious; he'd barely left Carter's side since they got the news about her brother.

"Hey," he returned.

With a grimace, Steve lowered himself down onto the bench. "Y'know, I never thought there'd be a downside to being cured of sinusitis. Why'd you never tell me that everything smells so… strong?"

"I guess I never really thought about it before. Smells are just smells."

"But they _smell_. And I'm not just talking about the smell of Dernier's lunch coming back up with a vengeance… everything has a smell. Even things I didn't think would."

"You do have a super-nose now," he pointed out. "That serum enhanced all your senses, right? Wait, is that why you've been showering so much recently? Back home, you'd shower twice a week. Now you shower twice a day."

Steve blushed a little, but didn't deny it. "I never knew I smelt so bad."

"You don't. And didn't. To us average human beings, you'd smell just fine even if you were showering every other day. Besides, I've seen your work-out regime. You have to run ten miles in full gear before you even start to sweat. But I'm guessing you didn't come over here to complain about the subtle aromas of the ship."

"Yeah… I thought I'd use the smells as an opener." A hint of a smile tugged at Steve's lips. "What I actually wanted to talk to you about was Krausberg."

The groan was out of Bucky's mouth before he could even think about stopping it. "Aw, this again? You already gave me a notebook to write in."

"I know. And I'm sure you haven't." Stupid Steve and his stupid perceptive guesswork. "But I recently came to understand something. That soldier who came out of the work camp where Peggy's brother's being held… he said that even though he was out, the place was still with him. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back there, living it all again. And that made me realise what you must've been going through all these weeks. What you're probably still going through now. And I just wanted you to know that I understand. And that I won't bring it up again. I don't want to keep reminding you of Krausberg, and taking you back there. I want you to know that you're out. You're free. You're never going back. And I hope one day, it can fade enough to be nothing more than a distant memory."

A familiar prickling feeling wormed its way back into his stomach, as it did every time he thought of Zola's torture. Steve was doing his best, and he thought he understood what Bucky was going through, but he didn't know the half of it. He could never know the full extent of the Hell of Krausberg's back rooms.

"It was like that, at first," he admitted. "The memories felt more real than anything else. And you don't dare to hope, in case you wake up and find you were dreaming. But I can close my eyes now without seeing it. Don't worry about me."

"You spent so much time when we were growing up worrying about me, that it's time for me to do the same for you." Steve leant back, and the bench creaked beneath his weight. "Anyway, worry aside, what do you think of our chances on this mission. I mean, what do you _really_ think?"

"Yeah, because I've always been hesitant to give my real opinion," he scoffed. But, since Steve was askin'... "It's going to be difficult to come out of this with everyone in one piece. Even if everything goes to plan at the stalag, we've still got to survive the journey there and the journey home. But Phillips wouldn't have green-lighted the mission if he thought we were gonna fail."

Steve nodded along to Bucky's assessment. "Y'know, everything's easier in the movies. You just go in, guns blazing, and the bad guys fall at your feet. You don't have to worry about riskin' innocents or collateral damage."

"Plus, the hero always gets the girl," he said, nodding in Carter's direction.

Steve followed his gaze, and his expression turned gooey. Carter had been a lot quieter than usual, since receiving the news about her brother. Normally she'd be in her element right now, issuing orders, bossing soldiers around… but now, her gaze was fixed on the ship's inner hull in a very unseeing way. Wherever her mind was, it wasn't on the boat with the rest of the troops.

It hadn't been easy to figure out a plan to get everyone in and out of Poland without getting caught. Going by road was suicidal; by plane, not much better. In the end, the Commandos had to compromise. They'd taken a plane to Gotland, off the coast of Sweden, and from there had been kitted out in preparation for Phase Three. But first came Phase Two; a perilous journey across the Baltic sea from Svalbard to Prussia in a ship so small and agile that it could hopefully outrun or outmaneuver any Nazi naval blockades or, worse, the packs of U-Boats that hunted beneath the surface. From the Prussian coast, it was theoretically a short—if dangerous—drive down to Poland.

"I have to make sure we get Captain Carter out alive," Steve said quietly. "It would break Peggy's heart to lose him again. I know I have no right to say this, and that no man's life should be worth more than any other… but I want you to see to his safety. You'll have eyes on the stalag the whole time. I want you to do whatever you need to do to protect Michael Carter. Even if it means letting me take a bullet."

Bucky fought the urge to squirm. But Steve was right. Captain America wasn't bullet-proof, but he could take a couple and keep going—as long as they weren't to the head. Captain Carter and the other prisoners… they didn't have that luxury. They'd be in bad condition, probably even worse than the bunch from Krausberg, if Steve's assessment of the escapee was any indication.

"Alright," he agreed. "I'll make Captain Carter's safety my highest priority."

It was like lifting the weight of the world from Steve's shoulders. He sat up straighter, and the bench creaked again.

"Thanks, Buck. It gives me a hell of a lot more confidence, knowing that you'll be looking out for him. His very own guardian angel."

"Guardian angel? I like the sound of that." And he could already hear Mary-Ann teasing him over it.

One of the Swedish sailors came down from above deck, wrinkled his nose at the stench of Dernier's dinner, and made his way over to Steve.

"Captain, we've just made sight of land. You and your men will need to move swiftly once we're ashore. It won't take long for the Germans to spot us."

"I thought it would still be dark when we struck land?"

"They have RADAR."

Steve sighed. "Fantastic. In that case, I better go help Dernier get to his feet."

"Rather you than me, pal," Bucky told him. He'd had enough of Dernier's upset stomach to last a lifetime.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Peggy paced back and forth, feeling every stone bite into the soles of her feet through her paper-thin shoes. Her 'disguise' was as itchy and uncomfortable as she'd imagined—sweat-stained labourer's overalls over a dirty grey shirt, topped with a cap large enough to hide her pinned hair—but she wasn't about to complain. Michael was no doubt far more uncomfortable than she. But not for much longer.

The men were, infuriatingly, at their ease as they awaited the next Phase of the plan. So far they'd waited over an hour by some little-used road in a gloomy Prussian woods; Dernier had even brought out a pack of cards, claiming poker would help settle his stomach.

Not for the first time, her gaze wandered over the men assembled in front of her. Steve was busy keeping a vigil above the road, concerned about missing their contact. Sergeants Barnes and Dugan had joined Dernier and Morita for round of poker, while Private Jones studied a pocket edition of the Bible closely, and Major Falsworth chatted quietly with the two Polish SOE agents, Pawel and Antoni, their last names unnecessary, accompanying the Commandos for their expertise on their native country. Off by himself, nervously chewing his thumbnail, was Herr Weimer, the German scientist who'd volunteered to be a part of the rescue operation. He and the Poles, who spoke fluent German with the right accents, were clad in very convincing replicas of HYDRA uniforms. The details was as damn near perfect as they'd probably ever get, recreated from the memories of everyone who'd been close enough to discern whether the HYDRA jackets were held closed by buttons of brass or silver.

She wasn't the only one wearing threadbare attire. All the Commandos were disguised as prisoners of various sorts. Falsworth's British Army uniform had been ripped in places and dusted up, and a light sprinkling of fake blood, courtesy of Jones' spy kit, had been applied. Steve, Dernier, Dugan and Barnes had been dressed in civilian clothing, like Peggy. They could pass for locals well enough. Jones himself, along with Morita, were another matter. They'd been told to keep their American Army uniforms; nobody would believe either of them to be Polish.

Peggy joined the German on his fallen log of a seat. "You shouldn't do that," she said, gesturing at his thumbnail. "HYDRA soldiers don't get nervous."

"Then I wish I was a HYDRA soldier." He brushed his hand against the sidearm at his hip. "I have never been in a fight in my life!"

"Don't worry, Captain Rogers will ensure your safety."

The man grumbled beneath his breath too quietly for Peggy to hear. She just hoped his nerves wouldn't get the better of him. That he could play his part well enough for the plan to succeed. Once Michael was safe, the German could go back to his quiet life in his lab, to wait until the end of the war.

Michael. The thought of him toiling in some German _stalag_ was like a punch to the gut. The fact that he was toiling for HYDRA was just extra salt for the wounds. Schmidt would pay for all the lives he had taken. Peggy would happily have stuck the knife in his back right then, had he been there.

The sound of a motor spluttering its way down the road put paid to Peggy's thoughts and the game of poker. Everybody was on their feet in a heartbeat, and they made a dash for the cover of the underbrush lining the sides of the broken stone road. Just because there was somebody approaching, didn't mean it would be their contact. Every moment they were in Prussia, they ran the risk of encountering German patrols.

Steve pulled a pair of binoculars from his pack and handed them to Peggy. Even at night, he didn't need them.

"Thanks," she whispered, and he smiled at her.

The vehicle travelling down the road was larger than a jeep, and it sputtered to a halt just a few dozen yards from the rendezvous point. Two men stepped out, and one of them lit a cigarette.

"They're not Germans," Steve whispered to her.

"Unless they're spies," said Morita. "Most of us aren't in uniform, either."

"The only way Schmidt could know about our plans is if he has somebody on the inside of the SSR," Peggy told the group. "After Dr. Erskine was murdered, Colonel Phillips conducted a thorough investigation, and is confident there are no more. We haven't come this far to get cold feet now; we proceed as planned."

They didn't hesitate. At a nod from Steve, they left the undergrowth and stepped out onto the road, weapons drawn but not aimed. Peggy followed, and Antoni, Pawel and Herr Weimer joined her behind the motley group of soldiers.

A few feet away from the vehicle—which Peggy now realised was a German army truck—a voice called out in Polish, to which Pawel replied in kind. Then, he turned to Steve, and said, "All is well. This is our contact, with the truck we require for the next stage of our plan."

The man beside the truck stepped forward, in front of the vehicle's lights, so that he could be seen. A member of the resistance, he was no better dressed than Dernier and the others. "I don't suppose any of you have cigarettes?" he asked, gesturing to the little white stick pinched between his fingers. "We are down to our last one."

"Sorry, we didn't exactly come prepared for barter," said Steve. "But if we can pull this off, I'll owe you a packet."

"Eh, good enough," the man shrugged. "Come, see your chariot. May she carry you safely across our country." The man gestured them forward and showed them the cab where the fake HYDRA officers would sit. "The heating does not work," the man explained. "These older models are not the most reliable. Built by the Czechs and stolen during the Nazi invasion of that country, I believe. Come, see the back."

It was hard to tell whether the truck had been used for transporting soldiers or prisoners, but whoever had been carried in it last had suffered a grim ride. The benches running down each side were wood and metal, hard and cold even in summer—freezing to the touch, in winter. There was no heating in the back, and no storage for bags or personal items. Luckily, their small strike team hadn't brought much in the way of personal effects.

"Here we have constructed a small storage space where you can hide weapons," the man said, pulling up a piece of the truck's flooring to reveal a long, narrow space. "We have also rigged up several holders on the underside of the truck; you can suspend additional weapons there."

Sergeant Barnes immediately rushed forward and placed his SSR2 sniper rifle, still in its box, reverentially inside the narrow space beneath the floor. "What?" he asked, when the rest of the team stared at him. "It's a delicate and precision piece of software. I ain't suspending it underneath the truck; Stark'll kill me if I don't bring it back in mint condition."

"Any ideas where I could store this?" Steve asked the Polish man as the rest of the team began secreting their smaller weapons around the truck. He hefted his brightly painted shield and spun it in the air before catching it. He seemed to like that thing more than he liked his gun.

"There is a cover over the spare wheel on the passenger side of the truck. We could hide it in there. It is the right size, and if we turn it around, it would pass as a hubcap at first glance.

"Great idea. Thanks."

As Steve hurried off to hide his shield, Peggy stepped forward. "Do you have any intel on Nazi troop placements between here and Torun?"

The man's eyebrows shot up so high that his unruly hair obscured them entirely. "You are a woman!"

"Yes, I'd noticed." One day—hopefully one day soon—the idea of a competent woman would not come as such a surprise to men. Jones and Morita, despite their obviously foreign looks, drew far less attention than Peggy, and half the world's population were women! You'd think by now, men would be used to seeing them.

"Who brings a woman on such a dangerous mission?!"

"We do." Steve reappeared at the man's shoulder. "Agent Carter has more experience of war than the rest of us combined. Now, please answer her question."

The man rambled off a rapid stream of Polish before throwing his hands in the air and heaving a large sigh. "Very well. You can expect patrols at regular intervals; we will mark the guard posts on your map. Ordinarily I would recommend you avoid these, but"—he gestured at the three men dressed in their HYDRA uniforms—"it would seem you prefer a more direct approach. I hope your people are prepared."

"Is there any artillery we need to be aware of?" Falsworth chimed in.

"Between here and Toruń? Sure. We'll mark emplacements on your map as well. But most of the heavy artillery has been moved to the Eastern Front. The Germans, they fear the Russians breaking through, you see. Though you will undoubtedly encounter patrols and Gestapo en route to Toruń, artillery presence should be light."

Steve handed over his map, and the second man, who'd thus far been silent, began marking off patrol routes and artillery placements. The rest of the Commandos finished hiding their weapons and returned to the rear of the truck.

"I suppose it's time to get going," said Barnes. "If we want to make it in time for the prisoner work detail change over, we can't waste too much time."

"Agent Carter?" Steve pulled back the heavy flap of material covering the rear of the truck and offered his hand. "After you."

She fought back a grimace and let him help her into the truck. It was part of the agreement she'd made; a sacrifice to allow her a place on the mission. A woman would not be sent for a labourous work-details, and her presence would only raise suspicious. So, she was dressed as a man, to pass quick visual scrutiny, she would stay at the very back of the truck, out of immediate sight, and she wouldn't be going into the camp itself. She, along with Sergeant Barnes, would slip away from the vehicle before it reached its destination and find a place overlooking the camp to give Sergeant Barnes a decent angle of fire with his rifle.

It rankled her more than she cared to admit, that she couldn't go into the camp and be there for Michael. To hold him close, tell him he was safe, and warn him of the violence about to erupt. In her mind's eye, she saw it over and over again. He'd be in the mines. She'd have to hunt for him. With each passing mineshaft she'd grow more and more frantic. Then, right at the bottom of the longest shaft, she'd find him. He'd smile at her, and forgive the last words she'd ever spoken to him. Then she'd take him out of that place, and see him safely home.

But it wasn't to be. Steve had assured her he'd ensure Michael's safety, and there was nobody she would rather have looking out for her brother. If Peggy couldn't be there, Steve and the Commandos were the next best thing.

Provided they could make it that far.

The back of the truck was cold, creaky, and smelled strongly of urine. A series of brownish stains painted a grim picture on the hard floor. Whether the dried blood had come from prisoners or wounded soldiers, she could not guess and was to travel in ignorance.

Sergeant Barnes took the seat beside her—another of Steve's suggestions. He didn't want his sharpshooter near the truck's tailgate, where he'd be the first to suffer any German bullets should somebody decide to shoot at them. Peggy suspected that secretly, Steve didn't want to put his best friend in harm's way. An admirable, if misguided, sentiment.

One thing she was grateful for was the absence of Freddie Lopresti. Both Steve and Colonel Phillips had agreed with Peggy's assessment that an incursion into Poland was far, far too dangerous for a civilian. Besides, it wasn't as if they had need of a photographer for this, and Peggy didn't want pictures of her brother and the other suffering prisoners plastered all over some report for the brass… nor plastered all over the front page of some tabloid.

Once all the Commandos were settled in the back of the truck, their Polish contact handed over one last item; a backpack filled with hardtack. "Those prisoners are unlikely to have been fed enough. Hopefully this will help give them a little strength—even if it's just the strength to die beneath an open sky."

"Nobody's dying," said Steve, though she knew it was for her benefit, and not the Pole's.

"I pray that it is so. Good luck to you all."

He banged on the side of the truck, and the vehicle rolled into motion. Towards Toruń. Towards Michael.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Michael was a lucky man, Bucky had decided. Even though he'd been captured, he had a sister who would move the Earth to save him, and a loving family to go home to at the end if it. The parallels between their situations were not lost on him. Two men, both captured by HYDRA, both presumed dead, both able to return home. Would Michael be suffering the same mental and emotional torments? Regardless, Bucky was determined to be there for the guy. Maybe they could not-talk about their ordeals together.

"Patrol!"

The word was yelled back from the German driver, and barely audible over the roar of the engine. Bucky tensed automatically, as he had every time they'd encountered a patrol or a checkpoint. The checkpoints were the worst; Gestapo stopped every vehicle for rigorous inspection, and so far, the team had managed to avoid raising suspicions.

The patrols weren't as bad. Sometimes they stopped the truck, sometimes they just watched it pass by, probably assuming the truck was following some kommandant's orders. But the patrols were, in some ways, more dangerous. The checkpoints were clearly marked on the map and could be prepared for. The team never knew where they'd be on a patrol's given route. Patrol inspections were more spontaneous.

This time, the truck slowed to a halt, and Bucky tensed even more; so much that his ass went numb on the metal seat. What he wouldn't give for a rifle in his hands! Something to defend himself if this patrol decided something was out of the ordinary with the prisoners and their HYDRA escort. Jacques muttered something quietly in French.

"What'd he say?" Dugan asked Jones.

"That he hopes those German codes will hold up."

"They will," Carter chimed in. "It's German procedure to change the codes on a weekly basis. We'll get a few days' use out of these codes before they're changed again."

The codes. The majority of the rest of the plan hinged on those codes. One set to get the team safely across Nazi-controlled Poland. One set to grant them access to the HYDRA facility. The standard German codes had come from the Brits—they apparently had teams working round the clock to decipher encoded Nazi communications. The HYDRA codes had come from the bunker network that Bucky and co. had captured in France. It almost made the sacrifices of the 107th worth it. Almost.

Right on cue, a pair of German officers pulled back the tarp covering the rear of the truck and peered closely at the occupants. Dugan and some of the other prisoners of Krausberg had taken HYDRA rifles from the prison, and those that hadn't been taken apart by Howard Stark were now being put to good use as props to support the SSR's elaborate show. The Commando's 'guards' each wielded a rifle as they watched over their 'prisoners'. It made for an unfortunately authentic experience.

Carter wisely kept her head down, and Bucky did the same. If the German looked in his eyes, they wouldn't see a defeated and downtrodden prisoner. They'd see a man who wanted to grab a weapon and put a bullet through their heads. Maybe he'd get a chance on the way out.

A conversation in German took place between the Nazis and Herr Weimer. Not for the first time, Bucky lamented his lack of talent for languages. Thanks to Dernier, his French was slowly improving, but he was still wholly reliant on others when it came to understanding German. He at least wanted to say, "That's for Krausberg, you monster," to Zola before sticking a knife in his gut. A bullet was too good for that guy. He needed to die slow, and knife to the gut was the slowest and most painful way Bucky knew.

Something sharp jabbed into his ribs and damn near made him jump out of his seat. He turned his head slightly to glare at Carter, and found her poised with her elbow ready for another jab, a questioning look on hher face. It wasn't until she glanced down at his hands that he realised why. He was gripping the seat so hard that his knuckles had turned white. It took some real effort to let go, and when he did, he focused his gaze back down to the floor and tried to put aside thoughts of revenge.

The voices rose in volume. Some sort of argument between the patrol and Weimer and Pawel. One name was thrown around several times; _Herr Schmidt_. It didn't seem to be having the desired effect. Perhaps Schmidt's name had lost currency.

He didn't have to look up to the faces of the other Commandos to know that they also felt something was wrong. He could feel the tension mounting all around, and vocalised in the increasingly rising pitch of the arguing voices. If things fell apart now, it wasn't just Bucky and the rest of the team who'd be in jeopardy—it would be the prisoners mining for HYDRA, too. They wouldn't get their rescue. They wouldn't get to go home.

A third German officer appeared. How many were in the patrol? If it came down to a fight, could the Commandos overpower them? Their own weapons had been secreted away, which meant they wouldn't be within easy reach. They'd have to take the weapons of the three Germans, and hope their Polish 'guards' wouldn't accidentally shoot them in a crossfire.

The third German seemed less interested in the prisoners. His tone was flat, almost bored. From the corner of his eye, Bucky saw the guy examine the very authentic paperwork and authorisation code presented by Weimer, and hand-wave it away with a _"Ja, ja, das ist gut."_ His underlings didn't seem happy about it, but they saluted, waited until the fake HYDRA soldiers had _heiled_ Hitler, then marched back to their own vehicle. The collective sigh from all the Commandos would've been audible to the Germans, if it hadn't been masked by the thrum of their departing engine.

"What was all that about?" Steve demanded of their guards.

"Those two Gestapo had issue with Schmidt getting his pick of healthy prisoners to work for him. They wanted to take you to one of the other facilities, and put you to work for the good of the Reich," said one Antoni.

"I've had my fill of toiling in German prisons," Dugan grumbled. "And I've not much patience left for this damned truck. Can we get going already?"

"We sure can," Steve agreed. "There have been more stops than we initially anticipated; we're behind schedule."

Their driver made up for lost time. Bucky could tell by the way the Commandos rolled into each other when the truck took a bend at speed. He got more familiar with Morita than he would've liked, but at the same time, Carter was rolled into him, which was kinda okay—save for the fact that she was Steve's girl, of course. But mostly okay.

Without warning, the truck screeched to a halt, and this time, Bucky was thrown against Carter. She huffed in annoyance, but didn't chastise him.

"What's the problem?" Monty shouted through the truck to the driver. "Have we encountered another patrol?"

"No. We have reached the drop-off point."

Bucky's stomach knotted itself. "Already?" The journey that had seemed tortuously long and delay-filled was now over before he was ready. This was his first real mission since Krausberg. Norway didn't count because he'd spent half of it unconscious.

"You ready?" Steve asked both him and Carter.

"Sure," he lied.

"Since the moment we left England," Carter said, and he didn't think she was lying.

"Then grab your gun and your supplies and let's finish this."

Though he hadn't been mentally prepared for the suddenness with which everything happened, he didn't need telling twice. Out came his gun case from its hidden place beneath the floor, while Carter grabbed one of the hidden backpacks that contained a selection of tools, supplies and ammo that might come in handy. Finally prepared, they jumped down from the truck and turned back to look at the rest of the team. How far they had come… metaphysically, not geographically. Three months ago, they'd been strangers. Now they were the SSR's best chance of stopping Schmidt.

"I still don't like you going into that place without me to watch your back," Bucky told his best-friend-cum-commanding-officer. "I remember a time when you couldn't punch your way out of a wet paper bag."

"Yeah, but now I can punch hard enough to break concrete, and you don't have to watch my back, because you'll be watching from above. That's even better."

"True." Bucky grinned. "Just like God. I'm basically God."

"You'll burn in Hell for that blasphemy, Barnes," said Dugan.

 _I already have_.

"We better get going," said Carter. She smiled at Steve. "Take care of each other down there. And remember; you're not alone. We'll be watching everything that happens, and we'll act on your signal."

"We'll see you real soon," Steve said. "And we'll be bringing Michael with us."

They watched the truck pull away, and a sinking feeling descended in Bucky's stomach. He hoped his best friend hadn't made any promises he couldn't keep.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: Update on a Friday?! I know, madness. But I didn't get to post this last Sunday as it required more editing than I remembered when I wrote it, and because it was written offline, I had to go back and change some of the geography to correspond to how Europes's borders looked during the 1940s. Next update will be Sunday 24th.  
_

 _Huge thanks to everyone who_ _'s still reading and reviewing, and to guest reviewer Guest I Guess for your lovely words. To clarify, when I talk about disliking slash ruining a good bromance, I mostly mean established canon bromance, like Steve & Bucky, or Peggy & Jarvis (because men and women can totally have a bromance). What writers do with their OCs is entirely up to them. I'm possibly the least romantic person in the world, and as such, I generally avoid trying to write it, so writing about unrequited feelings in an era where those feelings were verboten has been a double challenge for me, and I'm glad you enjoyed that aspect of the story so far.  
_

 _I now commence my attempt at a new personal record; writing 15 chapters in 18 days. Wish me luck!_


	95. Michael

We Were Soldiers

 _95\. Michael_

Steve watched until Bucky and Peggy were out of sight. His best friend and the woman who'd made him feel things no woman had before. He prayed for their safety, but in truth, their role carried considerably less risk than the rest of the team's.

As the truck continued its journey, Steve turned to Falsworth and asked, "How're we doing?"

Falsworth glanced at his watch, and his grimace told Steve all he needed to know. "We're behind schedule. If we're lucky, and don't encounter another patrol, we _might_ make it in time for the prisoner shift change, but we won't get much opportunity to warn the prisoners of our plan. If we do this too fast, the risk of casualties increases. But if we leave it too long, the risk of getting caught increases also. I'm afraid that all those stops and inspections have really thrown a spanner in the works."

 _Nothing going to plan_ was starting to become a familiar sentiment to Steve. It seemed every time he made plans, they inevitably went awry. It wasn't anything new—even when he'd made plans as a kid, he'd always end up bumbling and somehow getting in his own way—but it had become more apparent since joining the SSR. First was the plan to become first in a line of super-soldiers; a plan that had ended with Erskine's death. His plan to get to the front had ended with him dancing on a stage, and his plan to rescue Bucky had snowballed into a huge explosion and the rescue of a couple of hundred prisoners of war.

As the truck swayed from side to side, he closed his eyes, clasped his hands in front of his chest, and thought, _Please, God, if there was ever a time that I needed a plan to go off without a hitch, and with no unexpected surprises_ _… this is it. Just give me this one, please._

"C'mon, Cap. The situation's not that dire."

Morita's voice pulled Steve out of the prayer, and he offered a wan smile. "I know. But it never hurts to ask for a little extra help. For us, and for the men in that camp."

"Huh. I never thought of that. Guess I'll ask the big guy upstairs to keep an eye on us too."

"My mom always told me that God helps those who help themselves," said Jones. His eyes got that misty look in them, like they did every time he talked about his mom. He sure did miss her. "This one time, a few years back, we got hit by a pretty nasty flood over winter. Water pouring in, drowning livestock, filling the food cellars with the foulest water you've ever smelled. We were fighting just to keep the water from reaching the stairs and flooding the whole of the second floor… sandbags will only do so much when the river's burst it's banks.

"One neighbour, Mr. Willis, he just sat on his roof praying to God, asking what we'd done to deserve this, begging Him to make it right. I asked my Mom why we weren't praying too, and she told me, _"Honey, I don't know if God made the river burst and the floodwaters come, but if he did, there was a good reason for it. Now, maybe that reason was to test our mettle. Maybe it was to punish us or teach us a lesson. Maybe it was to find out which of us is devout enough to sit and pray while the waters come rushing in. A man can go crazy, trying to figure out God's will. But the God I pray to, he's the kinda God who helps those who help themselves. And just because I'm workin', doesn't mean I'm not prayin'._

"It wasn't a good winter, but the following summer, we had some of the greenest pasture you've ever seen. Those of us who'd worked to keep the water out of our homes, we raised a lotta good calves that year. But Mr. Willis' house was ruined. He had to move in with his daughter in Louisville."

Gabe's story reminded Steve of the tale Bucky's dad had told him, about the forest fire making way for new life. Was it true, then, that even great disasters served a greater purpose? Was it the same for the war, as well? Would there be some Genesis-type of explosion of life if they could put paid to the Nazis and their allies? Or would nothing change? Would war follow war, in an unending cycle of destruction, until nobody was left?

The truck slowed and came to a stop. Steve fought back his annoyance and called through the thin wall, "What is it this time?"

"I thought you should know, we're at the foot of the mountain. We will soon be visible from the camp. If there is anything else you need to say or do, now is the time."

"Alright. When we get up there, let's try to make it look like we're keeping to ourselves. And we probably shouldn't tell the majority of the prisoners that we're there to get them out until an hour or so before enacting our plan. We don't want to risk them talking about it or being overheard. I'll find Captain Carter and clue him in, and ask him to keep it between him and a couple of his men. They can make sure the rest of the prisoners know at the appointed time, and keep them somewhere safe and out of the way." He turned to their guards. "Will you and Hans be okay with the HYDRA personnel?"

"As far as they are concerned, we have spent the past year in France, manning HYDRA communications bunkers, before being transferred to prisoner escort duty. Your Sergeant Barnes has given us enough information to be convincing in our previous HYDRA activities. You can count on us to keep up appearances… providing we do not have to do so for too long." He thumbed in the direction of the cab. "I do not think Hans' nerves are up to sustained subterfuge."

Secretly, Steve shared the same fear. The Poles were soldiers, trained as SOE Agents, with the guts to match. Hans was a scientist unused to peril. He'd spent the better part of a decade living a cushy life in London. He was the weakest link in the plan, but he was also the only one of Kaufmann's men who'd volunteered to help. Sometimes, you just had to work with what you were given. Now doubt Gabe's Mom would also have some saying for that.

"We're ready to go," Steve shouted to Hans.

The truck moved forward, and soon began to climb. The truck didn't like to climb. That much was obvious from the high-pitched strain on the engine. One by one, the gears dropped, until Steve risked a glance out the back and realised they were crawling at a snail's pace. He caught his lower lip between his teeth and chewed on it—an old habit, and something his mom used to lecture him for.

"Can't this thing go any faster?" he called out.

"It is an old truck, Captain Rogers. We'll be lucky if we reach the camp, and when we get there, I suspect the camp's personnel will not be impressed. HYDRA equipment is far superior to this," came the response yelled over the engine's screaming complaints.

"If anybody asks, our real truck broke down en route, and we had to borrow this one."

"Ah, the old truck switcheroo." Morita nodded knowingly.

Dernier's forehead creased into a frown. "Switch-er-oo?"

"I'll explain it to you some other time, when we're not in mortal peril."

Without warning, the ground levelled out. The truck stopped screaming, and slowly came to a halt. Steve place his finger across his lips, asking for silence. So far, they'd been lucky. Now they needed to act the part of downtrodden prisoners. Luckily, this wasn't Steve's first acting gig.

A metal screech, like a fork across a plate, made Steve wince, and he pictured the compound gates sliding open. _Thud thud thud_ went pairs of approaching feet in their heavy, military boots. Steve's thoughts went to Bucky, watching all of this from some safe distance. Far enough away to give him a good view of the camp. Too far to come rushing in to pull his ass out of the fire if something went wrong.

Voice drifted in through the canvas covering, the German language as harsh as ever to Steve's ears. By comparison, Hans sounded less confident. There was a hesitancy to his voice that just didn't scream _HYDRA_. One of their Polish guards jumped out the back and joined Hans in the conversation that none of the Commandos could see and few could understand.

Steve dared a whisper to the second guard. "What's going on?"

"The men in the camp say they have issued no request for additional workers, and no record of any being assigned," the man whispered back.

"What about the codes? They should confirm the orders."

"They are still suspicious. It is not surprising. Following the escape of a prisoner, they will be more on guard."

Of course. Steve should'a realised that their arrival less than two weeks after the escape of a prisoner would seem conveniently timed. There was nothing they could do now but trust to Hans' bluffing skills.

They were doomed.

There were more harsh words, and then came the sound of screeching metal again. The gates were closing… with the Commandos on the wrong side!

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky watched until the truck was out of sight, then made for the woods that lined the road. Not far from the road towered a hill not quite large enough to be called a mountain. It was heavily wooded, and directly opposite where the camp was located. The perfect position from which to watch and wait.

He set a fast pace, because they had a steep climb ahead of them, and they needed to be in place before the truck reached the camp. If the pace was too fast for Carter, she didn't complain. He had to hand it to her; she was one tough cookie. In a lot of ways, she reminded him of his eldest sister, Mary-Ann. She, too, knew what she wanted and went after it with single-minded determination. God help the world if the two of them ever worked together on something.

There was no sign of winter relinquishing its grip on Poland any time soon. Though the ground was blessedly free of snow, it was hard with frost, and there was a chill to the air that made Bucky wish he still had the thick winter coat he'd worn in Norway. Back home, he'd liked the snow, and frosty winter mornings. It was great to take a walk in the crisp air, then step into a warm office or come home to the smell of Mom's cooking. As Dorothy once said, there's no place like home.

"What'd you tell your parents?" he asked on a whim. "About your brother being alive, I mean."

"I didn't tell them anything." Carter fixed her gaze ahead, pointedly not looking at him. "I wasn't about to get their hopes up. I'll tell them about Michael when he's safely back in England. They don't deserve to lose him a second time."

"Don't you think they have a right to know?"

She stopped, and turned to face him. There was that hardness again; the same one she'd shown back in France, when she'd likened he and Wells to children playing at war. It galled him, now, to think that she'd been right. Still, he would've given anything to go back to that time.

"Imagine it's your parents. They were told you were dead. They mourned you. Came to terms with their grief. Now, imagine that Steve _hadn_ _'t_ rescued you, but several years from now, your fate was discovered. Imagine that during your rescue, you were killed. Or perhaps you were too starved and sick to survive the journey home. Imagine your parents were told about your true fate. Do you think they would take comfort from knowing you suffered for years while they moved on with their lives? Would it make them feel _better_?"

"When you put it like that, I guess not." Better that they believed him dead all that time.

"I'm glad you understand. Now, come along. Time is a commodity we cannot afford to waste."

Well, that was him told. "Yes ma'am."

He watched her from the corner of his eye as they continued in silence. Technically, he oughta to be giving her _the talk_. He oughta be warning her to treat his best friend right, or there'd be Hell to pay. But he didn't think that kinda talk would go down too well. Carter wasn't some coy dame who would wrap a man around her little finger and make sure she got her own way, and she did genuinely seem to care about Steve. Perhaps it was time to help them out.

"So," he said as they marched, "has Steve asked you out for a second date yet?"

She shot him a look so sharp that he felt it like a knife in the shoulder. "I wasn't aware we'd had a _first_ date."

Crap. "Oh."

"Did Captain Rogers _tell you_ that we'd been out on a date?"

Crap. Technically, he hadn't. He said they'd gone out for dinner one time. It was Bucky who'd stuck the 'date' label on it. "Actually, no," he admitted. "Guess I just assumed you had. Since he likes you so much, and all. And yes, he did tell me _that_."

"Can we please focus on the mission? I have no desire to discuss my private life."

"Why not?"

"Because it is exactly that—private. And because I need to focus one-hundred percent of my energy on getting my brother safely home."

"Gotcha."

The forest was eerily silent, devoid of birdsong or the scuttle of small animals. What kinda animals did Poland have, anyway? Were there wolves here? Bears? Wildcats? Maybe he should'a done a little more research before the mission. Carter had her sidearm, but Bucky's rifle would remain in its case until they reached a good position… not that it would be of much use in close quarters anyway. They were poorly equipped to deal with a bear.

To take his mind off being eaten by Polish wildlife, he asked, "You got any other brothers or sisters?"

"No. Just Michael." After a moment, she asked, "What about you, Sergeant? Do you have any siblings?"

It was more interest than she'd ever shown about his life. Maybe being around the Commandos was smoothing off some of her rough edges. "Yeah, I got a brother and two sisters. Charlie, Mary-Ann, and Janet. And Steve, of course. Growing up, he was always like a brother to me. After his mom died, we were all the family he had."

That finally brought a smile to her lips. "He's often spoken of how close the two of you were, growing up. He's lucky to have people he can call family. Not everybody is so fortunate."

How true her words rang. Family was everything. Not just blood relatives, but the family of people he could rely on to watch his back and do right by him.

"That was a nice thing you did for Howard, the other day," she said. "Including him in your surprise party, making him feel like one of the team. Not many people would've done the same."

Bucky shrugged. He'd yet to meet a guy who _didn_ _'t_ want to belong to something, no matter how abrasive he might be. There were guys like Wells, who'd been hurt so many times by those closest to them that they thought being alone was safest, and guys like Hodge, who wanted nothing more than to make their moms proud. There was more to Stark than met the eye; he was sure of it.

"I don't see the point in fighting for our ideals and our way of life if we have to give those things up in the process," he mused aloud.

"A very noble sentiment. I only wish all soldiers shared it."

"You must've met some pretty unpleasant soldiers, to have such a low opinion of us."

She snorted loudly. "You met Private Hodge, didn't you?"

It was a good point, though Bucky believed the guy had _some_ redeeming qualities. He was no coward, for a start. Sure, he'd been an ass to Steve and Peggy, but unlike most bullies, he wasn't afraid to pick up a weapon and put his own life on the line. Still, it was good to see Carter starting to revise her opinion of soldiers. Sooner or later, she'd come to realise that a lot of good men were risking everything to fight the Nazis. And most weren't like Hodge.

The terrain started to get steeper, and all thoughts of conversation fled. It was hard enough to walk uphill without puffing and panting—how unfit he was! No doubt Gusty and the rest of the guys from the 107th would get a good laugh outta seeing him struggling to keep up with a dame, even if that dame _was_ Agent Carter.

They stopped beside a cliff to get their bearings. Carter pulled a pair of binoculars from the backpack she carried, while Bucky took a few sips from the canteen whilst trying to make it look like he wasn't desperately thirsty for water. "How are we looking?" he asked.

Carter pursed her lips as she peered through the peepers. "I can see the top of the compound fence, but we need to get highe—oh, shoot!"

"What is it?"

"I see the truck. It's climbing… slowly. Looks like it might start rolling back downhill at any minute. But at our current pace, the truck will be in place sooner than we are."

"Time to shift up a gear, then." He hoisted his backpack and picked up his rifle case. "Let's show Steve that we can outrun some ancient Czech truck."

They jogged uphill, and it almost killed him. His lungs burnt and his leg muscles ached. But he wasn't the only one panting for breath. Carter was feeling it every bit as much as he; her rapid breaths and red-cheeked face were evidence of that. How much more terrible would this climb be in the stifling summer heat of southern France? He prayed he would never have to find out.

After an eternity of burning lungs and aching legs, they stopped again near an outcropping of bare rock. Carter pulled out the binoculars, dropped to the ground, and crawled forward towards the edge of the outcrop. It didn't take long for her to provide a sitrep.

"This is a good place. From here, we'll have an excellent view of the camp, and as long as we keep a low profile, we shouldn't be seen."

That was what Bucky had been waiting to hear. He put down his gear and opened his rifle case. "Can you see the truck."

"No, it's not—wait, yes, there it is. It will only take a few minutes to reach the gates. The guards in the towers have already spotted it. They're mustering a small force. I suppose they fear an attack."

He fumbled the two main parts of his rifle. Stark had designed the thing to be quick and easy to assemble, but the swift climb and his nerves were getting the better of him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. _Get a grip, Barnes. This isn_ _'t your first dance. You've done this dozens of times._

Dozens of times, perhaps, but none of those times had involved Steve. Bucky still had to protect his best friend, but now he had other things to protect him from than back-alley bullies. Sure, there were Nazis, and Schmidt, and HYDRA. That he would protect Steve from those was a given. Worse were the _closer_ things he had to protect his friend from. There were men back home sitting in cushy offices, passing judgement over everything 'Captain America' did. Waiting for him to slip up so they could boast about how right they were that a science experiment who treated blacks and Japs and criminals as equals couldn't be trusted with the hard missions. Even one failed mission would see Steve led to the noose, and the rest of the Commandos wouldn't be far behind him. They'd gotten lucky in Norway, but he knew from experience that luck would only see them so far. Luck was what you hoped for when the chips were down and your opponent had you on the ropes. Lady Luck was a capricious paramour.

The moment of calmness and clarity did wonders for his nerves. His fingers ceased their fumbling, and moved instead as if by second nature. In just a few seconds, he had his rifle assembled, and joined Carter on the outcrop.

The butt of the rifle fit so snugly into his armpit that the weapon might well have been made for him alone. In fact, since Howard had Bucky's measurements, it probably _had_ been made to fit him. Just one more thing to be grateful to Stark for.

When he brought the rifle scope up to his right eye, the mountain opposite was rendered in such near details that it briefly made him dizzy. He adjusted his angle until he had a fix on the camp, though with a much narrower field of vision than one provided by the binoculars.

The guard towers were formidable iron constructs, though the guards were either incompetent or complacent; they stood upright, their guns aimed down towards the gates, exposing their torsos above the level of the protective metal barriers surrounding their posts. It should be relatively easy to pick them off one by one.

He found the truck soon after. It lurched to a halt outside the gate, and Bucky could do nothing but watch the scene unfold.

A group of soldiers approached the gate, and when they drew close, it opened. Three of them stepped through it, and Hans jumped out the cab of the truck to greet them. They saluted, HYDRA-style. There was conversation, and Bucky wished he'd been given training on how to lip-read. Not that it would've made much difference; he didn't speak much in the way of German.

If there was one thing he _did_ understand, it was frantic gesticulating, and Hans was a master of it. One of the Poles jumped out of the back of the truck and joined him. The Pole didn't gesticulate much, and certainly not frantically, so it was hard to judge how the conversation was going. From the look on Hans' face, he guessed _not well_.

There was another salute. The camp soldiers turned and walked back through the gate. The gate closed behind them, and Bucky's heart skipped a beat.

"What just happened?" he asked. Hans was returning to the cab, and the Pole to the rear of the truck. They hadn't been fired upon, but that was little comfort.

"I don't know," Carter replied.

"Why weren't they granted entry? They had the codes!"

"Sergeant, I'm privy to the same information as you," she snapped. "I don't have any answers. We'll just have to keep watching. Captain Rogers will let us know when it's time to act. Until then, try to remain calm."

Remain calm! He was hardly actin' frantic. Remain calm!

"Wait," she said, as she moved her binoculars a tiny fraction. "Something's happening. Men are coming out of the mine. Wait, what time is it?"

He checked the watch his father had given before before shipping out to Europe. _Old reliable_ , his father called it. So long as it was regularly wound, it had never let him down.

"Nine o'clock exactly," he told her.

"Then this must be the prisoner shift changeover. Yes, more men are coming out of the prisoner barracks. I suppose the camp guards wanted to perform the shift change before allowing newcomers into the facility. Lessens the risk of escape if the gates are closed while all the men are in the compound yard."

Bucky scanned the faces of the prisoners one by one, searching for Michael. It was only then he realised one major hitch with the _protect Michael at all costs_ mission Steve had given him. He had no idea what Michael looked liked. Luckily, there was someone with him who did.

"Do you see your brother?" he asked.

Carter shook her head. "The prisoners are moving too closely together, and the faces are a little blurry despite these binoculars being at their maximum focus." She eyed his rifle like one cat contemplating another cat's dish of cream. "Give me your gun. It has a much greater range than the binoculars."

He clutched the rifle tighter beneath his arm. "Not a chance. The signal from Steve could come at any minute. I need to be ready to act in a heartbeat."

She turned to him with such an expression of hope and despair that it made his heart lurch inside his chest. "Please, Sergeant—Bucky—I haven't seen my brother in three years. I would give anything just to glimpse his face, and if our positions were reversed, I wouldn't hesitate to grant your wish."

Dammit! She sure did know how to tug on his heartstrings. That dame was much too smart for her own good. Maybe he _would_ give her _the talk_ after all. Later. After they'd rescued her brother.

"Alright alright, point taken." He handed over the rifle. "But be real careful. It's my neck for the noose if another of Stark's toys gets damaged, and he's already holding a two-hundred dollar bottle of Scotch over my head."

She took the gun and aimed it with the confidence and surety of a trained soldier. _God help you, Steve._ "Don't let him hold it over you. That bottle was just one of a crate he was gifted by some rich Scottish landowner looking to curry favour two years ago. It cost him absolutely nothing. He wasn't even going to drink most of it; he wanted something with alcohol in it to polish the intricate metal parts in one of his experiments, and Private Davies' moonshine wasn't of a high enough quality."

Bucky quickly rescinded his former goodwill towards Stark. Anyone who would use a two-hundred dollar bottle of Balvenie, whether he had paid for it or not, for cleaning _machinery,_ was little more than a criminal.

A sharp intake of breath from Agent Carter halted his cursing of the eccentric inventor. He shuffled closer to her, and pawed at the gun.

"What is it? Do you see your brother?"

"No. But I just saw a man in a British Army uniform. At least one member of his team survives." He pawed at the gun again, but she ignored his attempts to reclaim his weapon. "Dammit!"

"What? What is it? C'mon, Agent Carter, if you're not gonna give me my gun back, at least give me the binos. I hate sitting blind up here."

Reluctantly, she relinquished the rifle. "The prisoner shift change is over. All of the men who were in the mine are now in the barracks, and all of the men who were in the barracks are now in the mine. And I didn't see Michael's face amongst them."

A quick peep down the rifle's scope confirmed her assessment. The compound yard was clear of all prisoners. But if their intel was correct, and there were some fifty POWs down there, it wouldn't be possible to check them all in such a short space of time. Not with the rifle. Its field of vision was too small.

"That doesn't mean anything," he told her. "Just that you didn't see him this time. I bet—" Movement by the gates caught his eye. The gates were opening again. A soldier was gesturing the truck through! "Wait, our people are moving. Looks like you were right. Now that the shift change is over, they're being granted entry." Thank God the codes still worked. The relief was palpable.

The truck rolled into the compound, and the gate closed behind them. Steve and the other 'prisoners' were offloaded, frisked by the facility's guards, and directed towards the prisoner barracks. That was good. At least they weren't being put to work right away. It would give them a chance to get a feel for the prisoners and the best time to escape.

"There's nothing to do now but wait for further instruction," said Carter. She pulled the binoculars away from her eyes and blinked rapidly several times. "Sorry, just got a little dust in my eyes."

"It is pretty dusty up here," he offered. "Just let me know if you want another look through the rifle. Any time at all, I don't mind."

She smiled at him. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." After all, he could offer her no less after she'd helped Steve rescue him from Zola's clutches. Just one more debt to repay.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The screech of the compound gates was becoming a familiar sound to Steve, but at least this time his team were on the right side of the fence. Too bad the right side just happened to be the _bad_ side.

"Hopefully we'll have a smoother ride from hereon," Falsworth whispered. Jacques nodded fervently.

The smoother ride was not forthcoming. In fact, the ride got progressively worse. It was like Coney Island's Cyclone roller coaster all over again, only without the certainty of solid ground to stand on after the train pulled into the platform.

A group of HYDRA guards descended on the truck. There was much yelling—in German—and waving of rifles. Orders were barked in broken English, and Steve and his fellow commandos were corralled towards a long, low barracks building. Even from a distance, Steve didn't like the smell of the place. The scent of urine and sweat and sickness and death lingered in a broiling miasma that assaulted his nose and made him want to gag. But nobody else had noticed it—not yet—so he focused on breathing through his nose and tried to put aside thoughts of what he would find inside.

Conditions were grim. The prisoner barracks windows were few and far between, and they didn't so much admit light, as diffuse it through years' worth of dust, creating a dim, murky nightmare of an interior to which Steve's eyes adjusted too quickly. He registered the rows of rickety metal bed frames and the thin mattresses which adorned them; he registered the pale, skull-like grimy faces with sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones which turned towards him with pity and resignation; he registered more strongly the stench of sickness and decay; he registered them all, while his brain took longer to process the horror around him.

"Sweet mother of Jesus," Dugan swore softly under his breath.

"And I thought Krausberg was bad," Morita agreed.

Now that they were alone, it was time to start enacting their plans. Steve approached the nearest bunk, where two emaciated men lay exhausted. "Excuse me," he whispered, "I'm looking for Captain Michael Carter. Is he here?"

The men simply stared. Either they didn't understand, or they were too exhausted—or mistrustful—to answer the question. Steve moved on to the next bunk, but received a similar response. The other Commandos spread out and began questioning the tired prisoners. It wasn't until a few more bunks had been canvassed that Steve received a more promising reply.

"Captain Carter?" asked a young man wearing a threadbare British Army uniform. A scowl of suspicion crept across his dusty face. "How do you know that name?"

"I'll answer that question to Captain Carter himself. Is he still alive?"

"I'm alive."

The voice came from the next bunk over as a thin, dark-haired man sat up from the lower bunk and swivelled so that his feet were touching the ground. His uniform was in no better condition than the other young soldier's, and his face just as gaunt; his eyes, as tired and devoid of hope. Seeing the state of the Captain and the rest of the men, he quickly re-evaluated his chances of bringing everybody out alive. He'd hoped Cromwell's state of ill health had been caused by the escape and a stressful journey from Poland, but none of the other prisoners were any better. In fact, some were worse.

Steve crouched down beside him, to better speak without being overheard.

"Captain Carter, my name's Captain Steve Rogers, with the Strategic Scientific Reserve. Your sister sent me to get you out of here."

A spark of bitter humour lived within him still. Following a snort and an exaggerated roll of the eyes, he said, "If Peggy knew I was still alive, she wouldn't have sent someone else to try to rescue me. She would've come herself."

"You're not wrong." He pointed to the window, even though he knew it wasn't facing the right direction. "She's here. Out there, not two miles away as the crow flies, with my best man. As soon as we've dealt with these guards, we'll rendezvous with her, and she can tell you all about our journey herself."

Hope and disbelief warred behind Michael's eyes. The latter won. "Nazi lies and plots. To what end I don't know, but you'll get nothing from me."

The urge to shake some sense into the man rose, and was swiftly pushed away. He couldn't afford to be harsh with a man whose body and spirit might be easily broken beyond even Stark's repair. How could he prove the truth to such a suspicious mind?

"It's not a lie," he said. "Your Lieutenant Cromwell made it to England. If you want proof, I can tell you the contents of the letter you wrote to Peggy."

"That's not proof Cromwell made it to England. Just that he was intercepted by the Gestapo and his letters used to improve the legitimacy of a convincing Nazi infiltrator. If Peggy _truly_ sent you, you'll tell me something only she or I know."

Steve racked his brain. Most of what he and Peggy had talked about had been war-related. Job related. He liked to think he knew a lot about her, but pretty much everything he knew was fairly common knowledge. Nothing that a thorough Nazi investigator couldn't uncover. Unless…

"When you were younger, Peggy had a dog called Picasso. A Lhasa Apso. One year, the two of you posed for a photograph with the dog in front of the Christmas tree. She was heartbroken when she couldn't take him to boarding school with her."

Michael's face paled, and he reached out to lay a hand on Steve's shoulder. It was a hand that shook with a feeble grasp. "My God, Peggy really did send you! And she's really here, just outside the camp?" Steve nodded. "I'd berate you for bringing my little sister into danger, but knowing Peggy, I suspect she didn't give you much chance to argue."

"I didn't even try," he admitted. He made a quick visual of the inside of the barracks. "Is it safe for us to talk?"

"Yes, so long as we keep it quiet. The guards watch us like hawks when we're out in the yard, but they don't bother when we're in the barracks. It's not like we have anywhere to go. Now, tell me everything I've missed. How is Lieutenant Cromwell? How goes the war effort? What's your plan to get us out of here? And how's Peggy? I can't imagine Fred was very happy about her being out here."

 _Fred_. The man who Peggy had once promised her heart to. He hadn't yet had chance to speak to her about that, what with the mission to Norway, then Bucky, and now Michael… so many things seemed to get in the way of him asking the questions he so desperately wanted answered—including Steve himself.

He put aside the burning desire to ask about Fred, and instead gave Michael a report on Lieutenant Cromwell, and the SSR, and how his family were. Michael was a good listener. He nodded along as Steve talked, and didn't interrupt with questions. The subject of how Steve had met Peggy never came up, and he didn't bother offering an explanation. Michael probably just assumed they'd met through work, which was technically true, and Steve was happy to leave it at that.

"As for the plan," he continued, "it's risky, but I think we can pull it off. You recall how I told you Peggy's up on that hillside with my best man?" Michael nodded. "He's also my sharpshooter. Best shot in the whole US Army. He's got a very advanced sniper rifle trained on this camp, and at the appropriate time, he's going to start taking out the soldiers in the guard posts. The truck we came in on has secret compartments hidden around it. We've stashed weapons and other equipment in concealable places, and when we're ready to make our move, we'll create a diversion so that we can get to the truck and grab our gear. Once we have it, we'll fight our way out while my guy on the outside covers us from above."

"That may get us out of the camp," said Michael, "but some might call that _out of the frying pan, into the fire_. We can hardly stroll down to the nearest airstrip and request the use of one of their planes."

"We've got that covered, too. Cromwell told us that there are trucks stationed here, for transporting ore. We'll use those trucks to transport all the prisoners across Poland and into Prussia, to the northern coast, where a ship will collect us and take us to Gotland. Same way we got in."

Michael nodded along as Steve spoke. "Alright, it's a crazy plan, but it's better than no plan. And if we're to die, I'd rather die on on outside of that fence, than the inside. What do you need us to do?"

"Be ready. And when the time comes, find somewhere safe to wait out the firefight."

Michael's 'disgusted' face was so similar to Peggy's that it brought a smile to Steve's lips.

"You're asking us to sit by and do nothing while other men risk their lives for our freedom?"

"No offence, Captain, but you and the other prisoners are hardly in the best condition to fight. If anything, you'll be a liability if the guards think to grab a couple of you as hostages. These sort of missions are what me and my men have been trained to perform. Just leave it to us."

"That's a very polite way of saying that we'll only get in the way. Very well, Captain Rogers; we'll defer to your judgement."

"I believe there's always room for politeness in the world," Steve agreed. It was good to know Captain Carter was as astute and level-headed as his sister. "There's one more thing I'll need from you. We need to get word to the other group of prisoners, the ones down in the mines, that this will be happening soon. I don't want them to run the wrong way in the chaos of battle. They need to know in advance where they'll be able to retreat to and wait it out."

"Leave it to me. We have ways of passing messages between prisoners. None of the guards speak Hebrew, but most of the prisoners do." Michael paused, and Steve could see ideas forming behind his eyes. "It will have to be tonight, at the change of shifts. I can ask one of the prisoners who takes water down to the miners to pass a message along. You mentioned a diversion—we can help with that. We're very good at diversions."

"That would be useful. We already have a device prepared for a distraction. Under the front driver side wheel arch of our truck is a…" He turned to face his fellow Commandos. "Hey guys, what are we calling the noise-making device?"

"A noise-maker," said Jones. Steve gave him the ol' blank stare. "I'll just point out that Stark's other invention names include 'Patented Stark Industries Mobile Magnetic Door Locker And Unlocker' and 'Auto-Gun Foil.' I think we got off pretty light."

"Could one of your men retrieve the noise-maker?" Steve asked Michael. "Once I have it, I can show you how to operate it. It's very simple, but if one of the prisoners can set it off, it will increase our chances of getting to the truck unnoticed."

"Of course. Just leave it to us. I think I know the perfect place to set it off, too."

"Good." How fortunate he was, to have an unexpected ally in this. Until now, he'd thought of the prisoners as broken men; victims. And though it was true they weren't up to the task of fighting, they still had their wits about them, and they could still help with the plan. Now, to figure out how to communicate the plan to Bucky. "I need to get a message to my sharpshooter. Are prisoners allowed out of the barracks during the day?"

"Yes, we can access the yard for the water pump, or some fresh air. But how are you going to get a message out?"

"Why don't you come with me? I'll show you. Peggy will be watching, too. I know you won't be able to see her, but she'll be able to see you."

Captain Carter was on his feet even before he'd finished speaking, and it seemed his posture was a little straighter than it had been before. Even in the dim light, his eyes shone with excitement. Steve prayed that Bucky and Peggy had reached their vantage point in time. He wished with all his heart that Peggy could see her brother again, even if from a distance.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

His dad had once told him that fifty percent of army life was spent waiting, but as he lay watching the camp for any signs of movement, Bucky quickly revised that estimate up to ninety percent. Wait for orders. Wait for transport. Wait for rescue. Wait to recover. Wait for more orders. Wait for a communication. Wait wait wait. It hadn't been like this on the recruitment advertisements they showed before the main feature in the cinema. Bucky felt more like a man of _inaction_ than one of action.

This particular waiting wasn't all that dissimilar to another mission which had involved a lot of waiting and watching through the scope of a rifle. With his eye still on the target, he angled his head slightly towards Agent Carter and asked, "Hey, remember that time we had to stake out our own camp with SSR1s to wait for the Nazi spy to make a move?"

The binoculars might as well have been glued to her face. She barely even moved a muscle as she replied, "Of course I remember it; it was only a few months ago."

Talk about leading a horse to water…

"We really need to work on your banter skills," he informed her.

 _That_ got a raised eyebrow and a brief glance. "In case you hadn't noticed, we're in the middle of a mission. Besides, my response was perfectly appropriate. You asked a question, and I answered it."

He couldn't decide whether she was being purposely dense, or whether she just didn't understand the whole point of banter. Probably best to assume the latter.

"Sure, we're in the middle of a mission, but we're not actively doing anything except watching. And besides, I thought da….err… agents were good at multi-tasking?" That earned him Frosty Glare of the Day #1, so he hurried on. "Anyway, you're not supposed to answer _literally_. That's not how you play 'do you remember?'"

"Oh, so this is a game?"

"More a way of bonding."

"And you're trying to bond with me?"

"Why do you have to make it sound bad?" God help him. God help Steve. "I just thought you'd like to reminisce about the good old days. Share some memories. Pass the time. Help take your mind off the wait."

Silence reigned for several minutes, and just when he'd decided this conversation was a lost cause, she sighed quietly and asked, "Very well, then. How does one play 'do you remember'?"

"It's easy. I ask, 'remember this?' or 'remember that?' and you embellish the memory with your own addition. For example, my 'remember that mission where we staked out our own camp' might move to you saying 'yeah, I can't believe Hodge boasted nobody would get past him,' and then I add more memories."

She risked another incredulous glance at him. "And this is what you and your fellow members of the 107th did with all your spare time? Reminisced about the past?"

"And speculated about the future. See, the past and the future are pretty safe topics. You can look back at better times, and pretend the next days are going to improve. It's a good way of getting you somewhere—anywhere—other than the present. Because the present is a dangerous place to be. You just gotta pretend the present doesn't exist. That it's some transitory stage you're going through. No man, or woman, can change his or her present… but we can change our futures."

"It sounds like you've given this a lot of thought."

He shrugged and fixed his gaze back to the camp. "You get a lot of time to think, when you're strapped to a medical table and routinely tortured."

Humour probably wasn't the most appropriate way of dealing with memories of Zola, but it was the only way he had. Maybe if he could make people feel awkward about what'd happened to him, they'd finally stop asking.

Thankfully, she didn't probe any further. Whatever her thoughts were about his ordeals in Krausberg, she kept them to herself. Perhaps she had the right of it. Perhaps waiting in silence really was the best way.

"I've got movement," she said, those three words filled with more tension and excitement than he would've thought possible.

He'd already seen the movement through his own scope. Steve stepped out of the prisoner barracks, clad in his tattered civilian attire, he expression as clear as if he was standing right in front of Bucky. Behind him came a prisoner, the opposite of new-Steve in every way. His dark brown hair fell lankly to just above his shoulders, the lower half of his pale face was hidden beneath a patchy beard, and his uniform was so tattered that it was hard to make out which country and service he belonged to.

Pain shot through his arm, and he let out a yelp, pulling his gaze away from the scene before him to glance down at the source of the pain. It was Agent Carter's right hand, gripping his sleeve so hard that she was pinching the skin beneath. In her left hand she held the binoculars, her attention still focused on the camp despite the pain she was causing him.

"It's Michael!"

"How about letting go of my arm so I can see for myself?"

She released her grasp without so much as an apology, and Bucky once more found the camp through his scope. Steve and Michael had moved on to a rusty old water pump—Steve seemed to be getting a lesson in how to operate it. After a quick demonstration, Michael picked up one of the equally rusty cups and began to pump water into it. Meanwhile, Steve crouched down to tie his boot lace… and simultaneously opened up an empty compartment in his heel, from which he withdrew a small object. With a quick glance at the guard towers to make sure he wasn't being watched, he angled the object so that the sun's rays caught it in a way that reflected the light towards the hill on which Bucky and Agent Carter waited.

With a few flicks of his wrist, he flashed out a message encoded in Morse. _Wait evening shift._

Great. More waiting.

"It seems we were too late to catch the morning shift change-over," said Carter.

"Mmm-hmm."

Steve, finished with his message, quickly tucked the small mirror back inside his secret boot compartment, then straightened up and pretended to be fascinated by the water pump. Guy could probably go a week without a drink of water, these days.

With the message delivered, Steve and Michael returned to the barracks. _Good idea, Steve. Keep your head down. Keep out of sight. Don_ _'t give them a reason to look at you twice._

A soft sniffing sound beside him broke his focus. Tears tracked down Agent Carter's cheeks—tears she brushed away with her sleeve as she retreated from the overhang so she could sit upright for the first time in an hour. Her voice barely cracked as she said, "We should take it in turn to watch the camp in shifts. Just in case anything unexpected happens." More tears replaced those she wiped away.

"Are you okay?" Surely the sight of her brother was reason for celebration, not tears.

For a moment, she said nothing. Merely chewed her bottom lip. When she finally met his eyes, there was terrible sadness and guilt within hers. "I looked right at him. I looked right at him, and didn't even recognise him. I moved on to the next man."

"What are you—"

"Earlier. When I was looking at the faces during the shift change over. I saw my brother, and didn't even recognise him." She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. "I must be the world's worst sister."

Bucky shuffled closer, and lay his rifle over his knees. "Not from where I'm sitting. Your brother's been through a lot. Time has changed him. What he's been through has changed him. You were looking at him through a pair of crappy standard issue binoculars, and through the eyes of memory. Nobody can hold any of that against you. Hell, I didn't recognise Steve, when he pulled me off Zola's table. Does that make _me_ the world's worst best friend?"

The question brought a wry smile and a small hiccough. "No. I suppose not. I just feel so… so…"

"Guilty?"

"What gave it away?"

"Nothing. But I know that it's been eating you up since the moment you found out. That you're kicking yourself for not doing more. Not trying harder. Not being stronger."

She stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. "Am I truly so transparent?"

"No. But that's how I'd feel in your place, and I think we're more alike than you realise." After all, they both liked guns, and dogs, and Steve. That was probably more common ground than he'd ever had with any other dame.

"Maybe we are."

"There. Was that so hard to admit?"

One corner of her lips pulled up into a smile. "Yes. Now, would you like to take the first watch?" She offered the binoculars—probably more comfortable than holding the rifle for hours—and he recognised the order-posed-as-question.

"Sure. I've got time to kill." Time, and evil HYDRA scientists.

"Will you do me a favour? If you see Michael again, please let me know. I'd like more than a ten second glance at him."

"Of course. Get a little rest, if you can. I'll shout the moment anything of interest happens."

He settled back down onto the rocky ground, and listened as she moved a little further back into the forest. She probably wouldn't get any rest, but he could hardly blame her. If it was his brother or sister down there, he'd move Heaven and Earth to save them. He just hoped Steve and the others were ready for the coming storm.


	96. Dag Gadol

We Were Soldiers

 _96\. Dag Gadol_

The inside of the barracks was like being inside the belly of some great beast. Dark, damp, claustrophobic. What little air was available was heavy with foul smells that waged a successful campaign against Steve's nose. Not for the first time, he wished his senses hadn't been _quite_ so enhanced by Erskine's serum.

Michael's bunk groaned beneath the combined weight of both men, but Steve didn't dare talk across the barracks in case they were overheard by the wrong people. Instead, they sat side by side, to whisper as co-conspirators.

"You seem a motley group," Michael observed. "Are you all Americans?"

"Not all of us. My second in command, Major Falsworth"—Steve gestured to Monty—"is one of your countrymen, and our demolitions expert, Mr. Dernier"—Jacques offered a little wave at the mention of his name—"is French Resistance. As well, two of our 'guards' are Polish soldiers, and the other… well, hopefully he'll keep out of the way."

"Have you done this sort of thing often?"

"What, infiltrated enemy territory to rescue prisoners from HYDRA work camps?" Michael nodded. "Once."

"And did you get everybody out alive?"

"Most of them." Some had been lost during the breakout. A couple had died from illness or injury after getting back to the SSR camp. But that had been a different kettle of fish. More guards. A larger facility. No actual plan. This time, he would do better.

"I suppose 'most of them' is good enough," said Michael. "Acceptable losses and all that. If I can see my men returned to their homes and families… well, that's all I ask. Get them out, Captain. Get them out, and get them home."

"I promise I'll do my best."

"Thank you." Michael closed his eyes for a moment and leant back against the rough wooden wall behind the bed. A wry smile tugged at his lips. "I suppose word of our survival came as quite a surprise. How did Peggy take the news?"

"As well as can be expected. I can tell by the way she speaks about you that the two of you were very close." As close as he and Bucky.

"We were. I suppose that's why we fell out so badly the last time we were together. I knew she was meant for more than a quiet life as a housewife. She always was such a precocious child. Drove our mother to despair."

A smile tugged at Steve's lips. He could well imagine Peggy's prim and proper mother driven to annoyance over her unruly daughter's behaviour. And he could equally imagine Peggy falling out with her brother over his disapproval of her plans.

"She said the two of you fell out because you didn't approve of her getting married," he offered. Michael seemed to want to talk about it. Maybe talking about it with Steve would help him talk about it with Peggy, once they were out of this hell.

"It's not the fact that she wanted to marry that I disapproved of; it was her choice of husband. Fred was content to sit in his office and let other men do all the dirty work in this war. He wanted a pretty wife to bear his children and wait at home for him to return every day. Somebody who would support his work and his career by running a home and raising a family. Any woman could've done that. But Peggy… it was a waste of her talents. He would've held her back and stifled everything that is wonderful and strong about her."

Steve made a quick 'shoo'ing motion at the Commandos, and they dispersed to find bunks of their own and talk quietly with the other prisoners. Steve hated prying about Peggy's life behind her back… but he couldn't stop now. It was easier hearing this from Michael than from Peggy herself. He didn't get quite so tongue-tied around her brother. His questions weren't quite so _obvious_.

"You think he didn't love her?"

"I suppose he did, in his own way. As much as any man can love a beautiful woman. But Fred wanted what was best for himself—not what was best for Peggy. Perhaps if this was a time of peace, I would not have been so disapproving… nor so harsh with my words to my sister. But these are difficult and extraordinary times, and they call for extraordinary people to step forward and strive to reach their full potential."

"I couldn't agree more." Once again, Steve lamented the death of Dr. Erskine. Michael would've been the perfect candidate for Project Rebirth—he was sure of it. And he was sure Abraham would've felt the same way.

"So. Tell me a little about yourself, Captain." Steve raised a quizzical eyebrow at Michael's request, and the man elaborated. "I'd like to know something about the man who's risking his own life to save mine."

He ran a hand through his hair and tried to think of what to say. His life, until very recently, had been pretty boring and uneventful. Besides, he didn't want Peggy's brother to see _Captain America_. He wanted him to see _Steve_. "There really isn't that much to tell. I was born in Brooklyn, New York, and raised by my mom. My dad fought and died in the Great War, and I never met him. The man watching over this camp with your sister is the closest thing I have to family—growing up, we were as close as brothers."

"Since you're an officer, I presume you have an education?"

"Yeah. After I got my high school diploma, I went on to study art. For whatever that's worth."

Michael gestured at his dusty civilian disguise. "Drafted?"

"Volunteered. I joined the SSR last year, and haven't looked back."

"And Peggy's a part of this SSR, too?"

"For a lot longer than any of us," Steve agreed.

"How did that come about? I can't imagine Fred would approve of her choice to serve."

"I don't know what he thought about it—she called off the wedding after the news of your 'death.' I don't think she's seen him since. Your mom told me she's removed all photographs of him from the family albums."

A suspicious gleam shone behind Michael's eyes. "You've met my mother?"

"Briefly, just before Christmas."

"I bet that was—ouch, dammit." Michael sat up and reached down to his leg to rub his shin through his faded trousers. When he saw Steve watching, he said, "Old war wound. When I was a boy, probably no older than eleven or twelve, I thought it a grand idea to climb the tallest tree on the street. I got halfway up before I lost my footing and fell. I was lucky; I came away with only a hairline fracture to my tibia. Even though it's healed, I still get an occasional twinge of pain on cold days. Don't worry, it doesn't slow me down. I'll keep up."

Steve let the claim lie. It wasn't Michael keeping up that he was worried about. Many of the prisoners were in worse condition; even now, many slept fitfully in the deep sleep of true exhaustion. He just hoped they weren't too late to save these men, after so many others had died.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The air was charged with excitement. Word had been spread amongst the prisoners. As soon as the shift change began, their salvation would come. Before the end of the night, they would be free. They whispered about it in huddled groups, their words unintelligible to Steve's ears.

A few hours earlier, several of the Jewish prisoners had taken cups of water down into the mine for those toiling for HYDRA. With them, they'd taken news of the impending rescue. Every POW within the camp now knew the plan. Steve didn't like so many people knowing, but he liked even less the thought of confused prisoners running out into a firefight.

Darkness came early. By four o'clock in the afternoon, the sun had set. None of Steve's team had managed to get any shut-eye. They were too wound up, and the stench of the barracks was too harsh on their unaccustomed olfactory senses. The prisoners had fewer troubles; they no longer noticed the smell, and most were too exhausted after toiling long in the mines to do anything more than whisper and sleep in turn.

Right on cue, the barracks door opened, and two HYDRA guards stepped in. Neither of them were the men who had accompanied Steve's team… he prayed they were safe and well.

"It is time to go to work," one of the guards said.

Steve nodded to his fellow Commandos. In his back pocket was the noise-maker that one of the Jews had managed to retrieve from the truck earlier in the day. When they were ready, he would slip it to Michael, who would take it to a good place to activate it. The Commandos would have only brief moments to get to the truck and retrieve their weapons. It wouldn't take long for the guards to get organised once they realised they were being attacked from within the compound. Hopefully, Bucky could keep them on their toes.

They filed out of the door two at a time. Once they were out in the yard, he slipped the noise-maker out of his pocket and prepared to palm it to Michael.

"You. Stop where you are."

Steve froze at the command. His heart started beating madly inside his chest, a frantic rhythm that probably would've put old-Steve in an early grave. Every instinct in his body told him to fight, but if he started throwing punches now, the guards would be on him in a heartbeat. He thought he could take them, but he and the other prisoners would be at the mercy of the armed guards in the towers.

He closed his eyes, expecting at any minute to feel a hand grab his arm, or the butt of a rifle jabbed into his back.

"You will come with us. The _kommandant_ wishes to speak with you."

The voice wasn't aimed at Steve. It was behind him, near the door. He dared to open his eyes and turn his head to glance back. The guards had stopped Falsworth as he exited the barracks.

"Me?" the Major said, the surprise in his voice completely genuine. "Why does he want to speak with me?"

"He will tell you that himself. Now move. Or do we have to drag you?"

"No need for dragging. My legs are fine."

Falsworth shot a helpless look at Steve as he was marched away. One of the other guards instructed the prisoners to keep moving. Uncertain, they milled, lost in this new turn of events. They'd been told they would be rescued, but one of their rescuers was being taken away. Already, the prisoners in the mine were being brought to the surface, glancing around as if ready to bolt for their safe places there and then.

And Steve was stuck in the middle of it. If he acted now, Falsworth would probably be shot at the first sign of trouble. Their team would be one man down—and one man might make all the difference. But if he didn't act, his team would be forced to work a twelve hour shift in the mines. They'd be tired, hungry, thirsty… they will have gone more than twenty-four hours without food or sleep. Could he risk all that, for one man?

He glanced at Michael. He was already risking everything for one man. He'd done it before, risking everything for Bucky, and he'd do it again. He couldn't, and wouldn't, sacrifice Falsworth's life for nothing.

He just hoped Bucky wouldn't choose to act and force his hand.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The world was once again rendered in vivid detail as Bucky peered down the scope of his rifle. The first time he'd done this, he'd seen the faces of young men not so unlike himself, and he'd hesitated. Now, the faces at the end of the scope were meaningless. HYDRA lackeys. Men whose deaths would make the world a better place.

"I have them in my sights," he whispered in the darkness. Why was he whispering? There was nobody nearby. Nobody to hear or see them. He cleared his voice and spoke at a more normal level. "Just give the word." Not that he expected a word to be necessary. Just for kicks, Dugan had activated the noise-maker in Jones' hotel room, back in London. They'd heard it on every floor of the building. That thing was designed to draw maximum attention, and Bucky had no doubt he'd hear the thing as soon as it was activated. Then, it was just a matter of waiting a few moments to be sure the Commandos could get to the truck and grab their weapons before he started adding to the chaos. _Bucky Barnes; Agent of Chaos_. Had a nice ring to it.

"Wait." Carter's voice sliced through the air, sharp as a knife. "Something's wrong. Major Falsworth's being led away from the group. They're taking him towards the camp's officer barracks.

He very nearly sighed. Of course, something was bound to go wrong. Something _always_ went wrong.

"What's Steve doing?"

"He's just… standing there. Hang on a moment… he's moving."

"Towards the truck?"

"No. Towards the mine entrance."

"Are you shittin' me?"

She drew her gaze from the binoculars to glance at him. "I assure you, Sergeant, I'm not 'shittin'' you. It would seem this turn of events has delayed the Captain's plans."

"Want me to take the shot anyway?" The man at the end of his sight looked a little too smug for his liking. "It can be the new diversion." No doubt it would get their attention. "Steve and the others could get to the truck."

"And what about Major Falsworth? He's inside one of those buildings, now. They'll likely shoot him the second the alarm is raised. Are you willing to risk it?"

He lowered his rifle. _Shit_. "Alright, let's imagine we're Steve. We've told everyone that we'll be escaping during the night shift change, but then something goes awry. You're forced to wait, and do a shift in the mine. Do you change your plan and have a morning escape, or do you wait until the following night?"

Carter gave the situation some serious, forehead-wrinklin' consideration. Finally, she said, "He'll act in the morning."

"Really? I thought he'd wait until night. How d'ya figure?"

She began to tick off the points on her fingers. "Too many people know about the plan. Every delay increases the chances of somebody making a mistake and letting something slip in front of the guards. As well, the chances increase that the guards notice something is afoot."

"But it's safer to act under the cover of nightfall. If we break out at night, we can travel at night."

"That wasn't Captain Rogers' initial plan, though. He wanted to perform a rescue as soon as he arrived."

"Yeah, but that was before he knew they'd have to work a gruelling shift in the mine. Our guys probably won't have slept, and they arrived too late for the one meal per day, so they'll be hungry and exhausted. At least if they wait, they can have one meal and a few hours' shut-eye."

"There are other factors to consider," she countered. Jeez, it seemed like she enjoyed arguing merely for the sake of arguing! "The longer our truck is in there, the higher the chances of somebody searching it and finding our weapons. Plus, the greater the chance of them sending a communication to check on the validity of the orders requesting new workers."

"But I thought the guys you put in the comms bunkers in France were gonna intercept anything like that?"

"All the bunkers we know about, yes. I'm not naive enough to assume that those were the _only_ communications outposts Schmidt possesses."

Great. So all the work the 107th did—all the trials and the losses—might've been for nothing? Just some fool's errand?

"We can't both be right," he said.

"No. We can't." She sighed, and lowered the binoculars. "We'll just have to continue to watch for any sign of communication."

"How will he communicate? He'll be in a mine. And it's dark."

"Then we'll watch until something happens. He knows we'll be watching. So long as we're ready, it doesn't matter _when_ he enacts his plan."

He had to admit—somewhat reluctantly—that she had a point. Whether Steve carried out his plan during the morning shift change, or the evening, made little difference to Bucky's task. _Wait_. And, at the appropriate moment, _kill_. Morning or evening, the timing was irrelevant. The time of day only had impact on the rest of the plans.

"If I take the first shift watching, will you at least get some rest?"

"No. Until Michael's safe, I don't think I could sleep for even a moment. You take a rest. I'll keep watch, and wake you in a few hours."

"Alright." He handed over his rifle. "Here. In case something happens and you need to act."

"Thank you. I promise I'll be careful with it. Howard will have no reason to complain."

He found an area a short distance away where a dip in the ground formed a natural barrier against the cold wind. It wasn't much of a shelter, but he hunkered down as best he could, tucked his hands beneath his arms, and pulled the collar of his jacket up as high as it would go. Once again, he was left behind in safety while others took all the risks. It wasn't fair. He oughta be down in that camp with his friends.

A tiny voice inside his head told him that Steve had arranged it this way to keep Bucky out of another POW situation. To keep him safe. Maybe even because he didn't trust Bucky to keep it together if he was captured again. But this time, Bucky ignored the tiny voice. Of course Steve trusted him. And as much as he wanted to be down there with his friends, he knew that his talents were best served here. This was the best use of his skills. Besides, somebody had to protect Carter from the Polish wildlife. Or, more likely, protect the Polish wildlife from Carter.

High above, the clouds parted to reveal a star-spattered sky. It was humbling to think that out there, somewhere else in Europe, the guys of the 107th would be looking up at the same night sky, and a few hours from now, when the sun set over America, his family would see these stars, too. They were the same stars that, tens of thousands of years ago, primitive man had told stories beneath, and even longer before that, dinosaurs—giant reptiles that knew nothing of war or genocide—had lived and died under the watchful gaze of the tiny, twinkling eyes. A hundred years from now, Bucky would be gone, but the stars would still be here, and that thought made him feel very, very small. Like it didn't matter what he did today, or tomorrow, or a year from now, because the world would keep turning beneath the stars.

He shook his head and tried to dismiss his thoughts. Of course his actions mattered. Maybe not in the grand, cosmic scheme of things, but to the people who had to live in the cold, empty universe; to the people who had to try to make sense of war and death and destruction, it mattered.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

James Montgomery Falsworth had never considered himself a coward, but as he was led towards the officers' barracks, his knees shook and his legs felt as wobbly as jelly. They didn't shake and wobble for himself—one didn't routinely jump out of moving airplanes without some pretty steely nerves—but there was more than his own life at stake here. An entire rescue plan depended on what happened next. Dozens of men would live or die on some German _kommandant_ _'s_ whim.

The officers' area of the camp was upwind from the prisoner barracks, and smelt considerably better. He dared to breathe deeply, enjoying the crisp freshness of the air. No doubt this was a luxury afforded to very few of the prisoners.

Outside one of the buildings, his escort stopped him and made him wait until he'd knocked on the door and received permission to enter. When permission was given, a sharp jab of the rifle made it clear that James ought to enter the building quickly, and he readily obliged.

It was a small office that he stepped into, no larger than Colonel Phillips' office in the SSR's headquarters, though not quite as sparsely furnished. One wall was adorned with a chilling flag, a white, eight-tentacled monstrosity upon a black background. Below it were two rusty old rifles that had seen better days, and were probably family heirlooms from the Great War. Beside the main desk was a smaller table with a piece of equipment that could throw a real spanner into the Captain's plans: a radio transmitter. At the first sign of trouble, the _kommandant_ could send a message to other nearby facilities. They would be on alert for escapees. Two other doors were set into the other walls, and he suspected they led to a bedroom and a privy. It was considerably better than what the prisoners had.

The camp's _kommandant_ was not what James had been expecting. Even standing up, he came no higher than his shoulder, and his uniform seemed ill-fitting, as if the sleeves and trouser legs had been made for a larger man.

"Welcome, welcome," the man said, gesturing James to a chair in front of his desk as the door behind him was closed, cutting off his exit route. "I am Colonel Alfred Schultz, commander of this camp. I am told you hold the rank of Major, yes?"

"Major Thomas Moore," Falsworth agreed. He'd chosen the moniker before the mission even began, just in case their captors had been issued with a list of escaped prisoners from the Krausberg facility. It would be far too great a coincidence for one man to be captured twice by the same organisation.

Schultz tutted and shook his head. "A travesty, that they should send an officer here. The hard labour is more suited to uneducated men, but you are not the first officer to have been assigned to us. No doubt you have already met some of your fellow Englishmen in the barracks, yes?"

"That's right," Falsworth agreed. No point playing dumb. The guards would expect the prisoners to talk amongst themselves, and to pretend otherwise would raise suspicions.

"Did they tell you that one of their number escaped, not too long ago?"

Falsworth sat up a little straighter. The first woman he'd courted had been a thespian, and now it was time to see if what he'd picked up around the theater house where she'd spent most of her free time was of any use. "Escaped? How?"

"They dug beneath the fence, a hole small enough for one man to crawl through. It was some time before his absence was noticed, and we have yet to recover him."

"Well, I can't say I'm sorry to hear that."

"I did not think you would be." Schultz once more gestured to the chair, and Falsworth finally took it. Let the little man think he had won, for now. "Since then, we have implemented much stricter regimes. No more than eight prisoners may take fresh air or water at any given time. And the guard in the yard has been doubled. Believe me when I say, there will be no escape. The only way out of this facility is by the front gate."

"And that gate may not necessarily remain closed to all prisoners?" he guessed. There was no other reason for the colonel to be telling him this, except to tempt him for some reason with the idea of freedom.

Schultz smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "I am glad to see you are an intelligent man, Major Moore. Tell me, how well do you know those prisoners who were transported here with you?"

"Not very well," he lied. "Most of them I'd never seen before we were rounded up into the lorry. Most of them are French, and only one of them speaks any English; and he doesn't speak it well." Another part of the cover. Mr. Dernier had taught the Captain and Sergeant Dugan how to say 'I don't understand' in French, so that neither of them would have to speak. They could pass as French prisoners along with Jacques, which would remove the need to explain why American POWs were not in uniform.

"And the Americans?" the colonel prompted, referring to Privates Jones and Morita.

"One of them asked me if I had any cigarettes, and the other called me a 'bloody limey'. Other than that, we've barely spoken. Why?"

"It seems to me that we have the opportunity to help each other." Schultz sat down and drummed his fingers across the top of the wooden desk. "I would not have chosen to oversee this facility. In fact, the four years that it has been operational have felt like punishment. The Jews are lazy and duplicitous, and we are so remote that we go hungry between food deliveries. For now, I bear it because I have no choice… and no leverage."

"And this is where I'm expected to help you?" Falsworth scoffed. "I'm actually pleased to hear that you suffer along with your prisoners."

"You say that now, but after a few months of toil and deprivation, you will change your tune." The colonel shuffled his chair closer, and it screeched across the floor like nails down a chalkboard. "Consider this. If I had information of value, I could use it to bargain my way to a better command position. And if that happened, I would not be opposed to taking a well-educated, useful prisoner with me. Perhaps along the way, I hand you back to one of Hitler's POW camps for officers. I am told those camps are well stocked, and men can while away their time reading books and playing croquet."

"And in turn for your benevolence, you're asking for..?"

"Information. Nothing more, nothing less."

Falsworth stiffened in his seat, and affected an insulted tone that was not entirely false. "I won't betray my country. If you want information, you'll have to torture it out of me."

The colonel laughed. Laughed! He even wiped a fictitious tear from his eye, putting Falsworth's feeble theatrical skills to shame. "Ah, Major, you misunderstand. I do not want information about your country or your army. But I _would_ like to know about American troop placements and plans."

"And why do you need me for that? I'm sure you have men who are skilled at extracting information from prisoners."

"Torture." Schultz wrinkled his nose in disgust. "A messy affair. And I do not personally believe it effective. A man under torture will say whatever he believes his tormentor wishes to hear. The truth becomes fluid, rather than absolute. But men in difficult situations talk between themselves. The English and the Americans are allies. If, during some talk, you should learn of American troop movements, or war plans, even individual missions, and you were to pass this information along to me, I would make sure you were suitably rewarded."

How very unusual. Schultz must be desperate indeed to get away from this place, if he thought he could get more intelligence from enemy informants than from torture. Perhaps this was something Captain Rogers could use to his advantage. It might be worth playing along, to see how far this could be taken.

"And what assurances do I have that as soon as I'm out that door, you won't be making exactly the same offer to the Americans?"

Schultz laughed again. It seemed his new batch of prisoners had put him in good humour. "Major, no offence, but your people and mine have been fighting this war for years. I'm sure there's nothing we don't know about each other, and such things are better left to our superiors. But the Japanese awoke the sleeping dragon, when they attacked Pearl Harbor. Nobody knows what the Americans will do or what they are capable of. Their army is mighty, but their tactics are unknown—if they even have any. That information is worth its weight in gold, and will secure me a new posting; and you, your freedom."

"And what about my fellow Englishmen? I can hardly leave them behind."

Schultz merely shrugged, as if they were of no consequence. "I can have them transferred to another facility. One with better conditions. Think about it, Major. All I am asking is for a little information, and nobody need ever know that you gave it. You can go home, to your family, or return to the fight."

"And I have your word for that?" Not that he would believe any promise the colonel could make. He wasn't just a Nazi—he was HYDRA. That was, if at all possible, even worse.

"My word as a fellow officer," Schultz agreed. "My guards will return you to the mine. I suggest you tell your fellow prisoners that I merely interrogated you, and think about what I've said. I am a patient man, and neither of us are going anywhere for the foreseeable future. When you are ready to provide information, I will be here to listen. Simply ask one of the guards to bring you to see me."

"I will certainly give your words due consideration."

The guard was called back into the room, and Falsworth was led out of the office. Schultz had given him much food for thought, and hopefully Captain Rogers could use this information to his advantage.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"What're we going to do?" Morita whispered to Steve.

"Just keep your head down and haul ore," he replied.

"What do you think they're doing to Monty?" asked Dugan.

This time, Michael answered. "Probably just basic interrogation. My men and I had the same when we first arrived. The camp's commander is a greedy, ambitious man who hates that he's been stationed here. He considers it an insult, to be overseeing the work of predominantly Jewish prisoners. That man would sell his own mother for a promotion or reassignment."

Steve looked around. They worked by lamplight in semi-darkness, but his eyes were good enough to make out every line of worry on their faces. They were too close, too clustered together. It looked suspicious.

"Morita, Jones, go work with some of the Jewish prisoners in one of the other tunnels. Keep an eye on things. Reassure them that we're going to get them out of here; our plans have just been delayed. Dugan, Dernier, you do the same. Remember, we aren't supposed to know each other. Let's not give the guards reason to watch us more closely."

The men separated and disappeared down different tunnels. A tiny sigh of relief escaped Steve's lips. Now he could speak without spreading his fears to the rest of the team.

"Do you really think Monty is okay?" he asked Michael.

"No doubt. There aren't so many workers here that Schultz can afford to injure a healthy one."

"And do you think I did the right thing? I know a certain Colonel who, in my position, would've gone ahead with the plan and hoped Monty could handle himself."

Michael stopped swinging his pick for a moment, and stood up to knuckle his back. It was a wonder he could still work at all.

"I firmly believe that war requires sacrifice, however, it shouldn't require _needless_ sacrifice. Our situation is not so dire that your plans couldn't be delayed by a few hours or a day. In your position, I would have done the same. As Captains, our men need to know that if we _do_ ask them to take a risk, it's for a good reason."

"I hope I never have to ask that." He would rather walk through the fires of Hell himself than ask one of his men to risk their lives. "Maybe—"

He let the sentence die as the sound of footsteps approached. The image of a helmeted guard flashed through his mind, and he tightened his grip on the wooden handle of his pick, ready to wield the tool as a weapon if the need arose.

The footsteps drew nearer, but they were more of a weary trudge than the purposeful march of a guard. Steve's fingers relaxed, and the pick was once more just a took for breaking rock, rather than a weapon for breaking heads.

One of the prisoners materialised out of the darkness, a Jewish man whom Steve had noticed in the barracks. The man joined them, and kept his voice to a whisper.

"I just thought you would want to know that your man has been brought back from the _kommandant_ _'s_ office. He's in one of the other tunnels, with your uniformed friends."

"Thank you, Steinberg," said Michael. "Captain Rogers, this is Hanan Steinberg, a trusted friend and what passes for a leader amongst the Jewish prisoners."

Steinberg was older than Steve had first realised; probably fifty, at least. It was a miracle that he was still hale and strong enough to work at such gruelling tasks. Though his face was smeared with grime and his lank hair hung well below his shoulders, he didn't have the same emaciated appearance as most of the Jews.

"I see your thoughts, Captain Rogers," said Steinberg. "As a skilled man, I do not usually work in the mine, but one of the prisoners is very sick, and I offered to work here in his place. Normally, I am a cobbler. I repair the heels under which we are crushed like ants."

"Soon, you won't have to repair another German heel ever again," Steve told him. "Will your people be able to keep the plans quiet a little longer?"

"Of course, Captain. We are patient. Many of us have waited a long time to taste freedom; we can wait a little longer."

"Good. Would you show me where Major Falsworth is working? I need to talk to him about what just happened."

"Follow me." Steinberg turned and gestured for him to follow. "He is not far."

Despite Michael's assurances that the _kommandant_ wouldn't hurt Falsworth, Steve had his doubts. He knew all too well what HYDRA personnel were capable of, and they wouldn't hesitate to inflict pain to achieve their goals.

Falsworth, uninjured and in good spirits as he joked with Morita and Jones, was a sight for sore eyes. He saluted when he saw Steve approach, and launched into an immediate whispered sitrep.

"I'm fine, Captain, though I've just had a very illuminating chat with the camp's colonel, a man named Schultz. It seems he wants me to gather intel on American troops movements and report back in exchange for my freedom. I think this can work to our benefit."

"How? We need you on the inside, to help us break out. There's not much you can do from outside the fence."

"Schultz has a radio transmitter; if I can get to it before we enact our plan, I can ensure that nobody sends an outgoing transmission for help. In fact, we could even use it to further enhance our deception. I could use the radio to advise nearby facilities that a number of prisoners were killed during an attempted breakout, and request a fresh supply of workers. It will take a couple of days for them to arrive, but if we radio for more workers, nobody will suspect that anything is amiss, and by the time they get here, we'll be long gone."

"I like the way you think, Major," said Captain Carter. "Schultz would be so eager to hear what intelligence you've discovered, that he'd let you walk right into his office. Could you subdue him unarmed, though?"

"Yes, I think so. He's not a large man, and I've been told I have a mean right hook." Falsworth raised his fists, to prove that he really did know how to box. "If you can manage without me, I think my efforts would be best spent handling Schultz. It will also help to destabilise the troops, if there's nobody to issue them orders."

"Alright," Steve agreed. "I'm sure we can come up with some suitable intel for you to pass along. The only question now is, do we carry out the plan in the morning, during the next shift change, or wait until nightfall?"

"It would be more convincing if we waited until nightfall," said Falsworth. "After all, it will look very suspicious if I come up with some intel too quickly. Plus, it will give us chance to rest after working in the mine."

"What about Barnes?" Morita asked. "We can't get a message to him now; he might decide to take action."

Steve shook his head. "Bucky will be watching, but he knows to wait for our signal before launching his attack."

"Are you sure? Maybe to him, it looks like something's gone wrong and we really _have_ been taken prisoner."

"I trust Bucky to wait. Besides, Pe—I mean, Agent Carter, is up there with him. They'll be fine for another day."

"In that case, we should get back to work," said Michael. "The less we're seen talking together, the better."

"You're right," Steve agreed. "We'll talk further in the barracks. For now, let's act like prisoners. By this time tomorrow, we need to be ready to make our move. Steinberg, can you pass the word around to all the prisoners? I want them to know when this is going down."

"I'll make sure of it personally," the Jewish man agreed. "We will be ready."

After Steinberg left, Steve joined Dernier and Dugan so that the 'French' prisoners appeared to be sticking together. Michael went back to his own tunnel, and Morita and Jones continued working beside the Jews. Soon, very soon, this would all be behind them.

* * *

 _Author's note: In response to Guest user's comment about Article 13: I'm not personally too concerned about Article 13 affecting my work, since it does not make profit. The Article, from what I can tell, seems to be aimed at controlling content that may be displayed on sites which have for-profit features, and I suspect will hit things like image-hosting sites and youtube harder than fanfiction. If it does turn out that Article 13, or Net Neutrality, or any other piece of internet legislation does interfere with this site, then any of my readers can simply email me (see profile, email address also listed on my primary website) to receive chapter updates by email. That is, of course, providing I couldn't find a workaround such as a link-only Googledocs file, or a private/password-protected page on WordPress. Content filters may not detect what cannot be archived by search engines. That's my theory, anyway. The short of it: don't panic. I will get you chapters._

 _In other news, anyone seen DeadPool 2? Do we think Cable's daughter's name is a massive piece of foreshadowing for what DeadPool 3 might be about, or a simple nod to the comic lore? Leave thoughts in box. Leave cookies too._


	97. The Amazing Escape

We Were Soldiers

 _97\. The Amazing Escape_

 _Bucky lay atop the cliff, the work camp visible in intricate detail through the lens of his scope. The men toiling below scurried here and there like ants_ _… in fact, they_ were _ants, running back and forth over the ground, filing into and out of their tunnels in the world_ _'s largest ant-hill._

 _An itchy feeling between his shoulder blades told him he was being watched. The same itchy feeling he imagined a deer felt, right before the hunter_ _'s bullet found its heart. Once, long ago, he'd lived in a big city and been a man. Now, he lived from mission to mission, sometimes the hunter, sometimes the prey, and at times he forgot what it was like to be a man._

 _Slowly, he turned his head, glancing over his shoulder through his peripheral vision. Nothing. Just the cold, bare forest. Not even the sigh of the winter breeze disturbed the air. But that didn_ _'t mean he was alone._

 _The clouds parted, stars shining bright as diamonds, thousands of tiny spotlights, sparkling eyes in the night. They were watching. Always watching._

 _He turned his rifle towards the biggest, brightest star, waiting for it to come into focus. Sure enough, right on top of the star sat a man with a rifle of his own, watching Bucky was he was watched in turn. His finger wasn_ _'t on the trigger, though. The man wasn't ready to shoot. Not yet._

 _He moved his rifle_ _'s aim to a more distant star, one that dimmer, not as bright. This star, too, had a man; a man who took aim at the first man on the brighter star, though the first man was unaware he was being watched from behind._

" _Look out behind you!" Bucky yelled. The man on the star yelled something back, but he was too far away for Bucky to hear. "Behind you!" Bucky tried again, this time pointing with his free hand to over the man's shoulder. The man pointed back, and shiver crept over Bucky's skin. He turned, rifle at the ready, to aim at the star behind him. And sure enough, there was a man on the star taking aim at him. And behind that man, another star with another man. Everywhere Bucky looked were men on stars, each aiming at the other, all hunting for some unknown quarry._

 _They turned like a cascading waterfall, each man looking behind, then looking ahead. How long before one of them took their shot? Could Bucky shoot first? But which one should he shoot? How did he know which was the real hunter, and which were just pale reflections cast back by the night sky?_

 _In that instant, he knew that he could never pull the trigger. If he did, the entire thing would come crashing down, every star falling from the sky in blazing destruction. But the other men didn_ _'t know that. Even now, some of them were taking aim again, preparing to fire on their quarry. Bucky dropped his gun and waved his arms, desperate to get their attention. "Don't do it!" he yelled. "Don't pull the trigger!"_

 _A loud_ crack _like the first peal of thunder pierced the air. A star began to fall. Down and down and down. And then,_ crack, crack, crack. _More gunshots. More falling stars. They fell from the sky like burning tears, colliding with each other, exploding when they touched, hitting other stars, until the entire sky was filled with dying stars, and Bucky felt them start to burn his skin to char_ _—_

"Sergeant Barnes, wake up!"

Bucky's eyes flickered open to pale light and an equally pale face. He couldn't tell whether it was worry or excitement that he saw in Agent Carter's eyes; it might've been both.

"What's happening?" he asked, as words slurred on his tired tongue.

"The prisoners have just been fed. If Captain Rogers is going to make his move, he'll do it soon, and since you're a better shot than me with this rifle, I think you should be the one to use it."

"What? It's that time already? Why didn't you wake me sooner?!"

"You were sleeping quite soundly; it seemed a shame to wake you."

A shame! As if it was perfectly fine to let a guy sleep outside in the middle of Poland during an important mission! Besides, it wasn't as if he was still unwell and in need of bed rest.

He yawned as he pushed himself to his feet, and asked, "What's for breakfast?"

"Same as dinner yesterday. Rations and water." She held the rifle out towards him. "But with any luck, we'll be eating on the move. I suspect this is the moment we've been planning for."

He didn't bother arguing. He merely followed her back to the outcrop overlooking the camp, and rifled through the backpack for a ration bar while Agent Carter crawled forward with the binoculars. Mentally cursing the most uncomfortable waiting spot in the whole of Poland, Bucky joined her, stuffing a whole bar in his mouth to keep his hands free for his rifle. Carter gave him a look of utter disgust.

"Stark seth I hath to eath," he managed to get out around his mouthful of food.

"Oh, as if you need that excuse!" she scoffed. But it was a half-hearted scoff, and her attention was swiftly turned back to the camp.

Bucky settled his rifle into the crook of his arm and peered down the scope. It didn't take long for his arms to start aching. When he got back, he'd definitely be asking Stark for some sort of tripod on which to balance the gun for missions that involved a lot of waiting. That, and better-tasting ration bars.

He sensed the shift change by Agent Carter's tense position. She didn't need to narrate the activities in the camp below, but she did it anyway.

"It looks like the shift is about to change. Yes, the prisoners are being brought out from the barracks. And over there, the mine workers are being led out of the tunnel. Be ready, Sergeant."

Maybe it was because he was still sleepy, maybe it was because his mind still lingered in the dream, or maybe he just wasn't seeing a whole lot of tension down there in the camp, but he didn't _feel_ ready. In fact, _this_ felt more like a dream than the world full of falling stars.

He spotted Steve, down below. His face was dusty, his blond hair more grey after a stint in the mines. The other Commandos didn't look any better; they all moved stiffly, their muscles unused to such long hours of repetitive toil. The familiar sting of guilt bit into Bucky again. The guys were down there workin' hard, suffering at physical labour, while he was up here with a grand view and an ample supply of army rations. On the other hand, they'd only done a single shift in the mine. It was nothing compared to what the prisoners had gone through. Nothing compared to what Bucky had endured at Krausberg.

What had they had for breakfast? Cromwell had mentioned some sort of stew and sauerkraut. It didn't sound particularly appetising, but then, it probably couldn't be too much worse than ration bars.

"They're moving!"

Bucky quickly switched his focus from food back to his friends. Carter was right; they were moving towards the prisoner barracks. This time, there was no uncertain glancing, no nervous shuffling; everybody seemed to be confident in what they were doing, including the prisoners.

"It's not gonna happen now," Bucky said.

"Just give them a few more minutes," Carter countered. "There's still time."

But Steve and the others were heading into the barracks. Nobody so much as even glanced at the truck. The door closed behind them. The prisoners who'd rested overnight filed back into the mine, away from the sun's pale light for another twelve hours. What a terrible way to live.

"You were right," Carter admitted as she lowered the binoculars. It sounded like the most difficult admission she'd ever had to make. "He's going to act at night."

"Your reasoning was sound, though," he offered. "I bet he's got some new information that's made him decide to wait. Otherwise, it would've made just as much sense to act now."

"Either way, it looks like we have another twelve-hour wait." She rolled her shoulders and winced in pain. Clearly, the long hours of staring through the binoculars had taken their toll.

"Why don't you go and get some rest?" he offered. "I know you said you wouldn't be able to sleep, but at least stretch your legs, maybe take a walk down to the road to make sure it's still clear, and give your body a break. You want to be in best condition for the break-out, right?"

"I suppose that would be for the best," she agreed. "But you'll come and get me if anything happens?"

"Of course."

Getting Carter to agree to anything she hadn't thought of herself was like drawing blood from a stone, so he was pleasantly surprised when she took one of the ration bars from the backpack and ambled off downhill to stretch her legs. Now, it was Bucky's turn to be patient. He found a relatively comfortable tree to set his back against, and settled down with the binoculars for the long wait.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Michael and the other prisoners were so exhausted that Steve let them sleep the day away. His own team weren't as mentally tired, but they were physically tired from the hard work, so they dozed fitfully as best they could. Steve desperately wished he had somebody to talk to. Somebody to go over the plans with one last time. Falsworth's calculated wisdom would've been most welcome, and Michael was a constant source of calmness… but he didn't have the heart to wake either man, so he sat in silence and tried not to dwell on everything that might go wrong. Hopefully, the plan was straightforward enough that there was little room for error. The prisoners knew what to do and when to do it, and earlier in the afternoon Steve had been out to flash another message to Bucky and Peggy. Everything was in place.

A couple of hours before the shift change, the prisoners began to wake. They wandered outside in twos and threes to grab a drink from the pump and a brief period of fresh winter air. Michael was one of the last to wake, and when he did, he sat up and blearily rubbed at his eyes.

"I had a strange dream that I was back home, in my own bed," he said. "A woman—not my mother—brought me breakfast in bed. I think it was my wife."

"What's so strange about that?" Steve asked.

"I'm not married." He stretched and pushed himself out of the lower bunk he called home. "That's one thing I'm looking forward to more than anything else. Breakfast in bed. A big fry-up. Sausages and bacon and eggs, fried tomatoes and mushrooms… and French toast. Do fry-ups still taste the same?"

"They've gotten a lot smaller," said Monty. "Because of rationing. But they do taste just as good, when one can get them."

Michael smiled. "Major, would you mind giving me a moment alone with Captain Rogers?"

Falsworth, ever the courteous gentleman, acquiesced immediately. "Of course not. I was about to go and get a drink of water anyway. I'll return before the shift change is due."

Alone in the gloom save for a few still-sleeping prisoners, Michael rested back against the wall of his bunk. Steve had a suspicion about what Michael wanted to discuss, but when the man spoke, it wasn't the words Steve was expecting.

"Those other prisoners you rescued… what became of them?"

"You've met some of them," Steve told him. "The Commandos were all prisoners in that work camp. But most of the men from the camp were sent home for R&R."

Michael nodded, as if Steve's reply confirmed his own suspicions. "And that will be our fate, too, should we make it home. Assigned to R&R, or demobilised entirely. We'll be put out to pasture like the injured and the infirm, left to sit by and watch while others fight."

"Just until you're recovered," said Steve. What he _didn_ _'t_ say was that their recovery might take a very long time indeed.

"No need to mince words out of politeness, Captain Rogers." Michael gestured to the door leading outside, where his team were taking in the fresh air. "I look at my men and I see shadows of their former selves. The years in this place have taken a harsh toll on them; and on me, as well. It will take more than a fry-up and a few days of bed rest to see us back to health. We rely on you and your men to save us, and see us safely home. We'll return not as soldiers victorious in battle, but as prisoners broken and defeated."

Was that why Bucky hadn't wanted to go home for R&R? Steve had assumed his friend was being his usual stubborn self in refusing to comply with orders, but if the same fears had festered inside Bucky's heart, it was hardly surprising that he hadn't wanted to return home. Now that Michael had said the words, Steve could imagine Bucky going through the same thing. He hadn't been able to see it from Bucky's point of view, because he was too close to his friend, too worried for his safety. Sometimes, it was easier to hear the truth from strangers than from family.

"Captain, you and your men have risked everything for us," Michael continued. "But there is one final favour I must ask you for. When the attack begins, let me and my men assist you. Let us fight for our freedom alongside you."

Steve shook his head. Peggy would kill him. "It's far too dangerous. The weapons the guards carry are capable of disintegrating a man on the spot, and you and your men are not in any condition to fight."

"Please, Captain. This will be the last any of us will see of this war. Don't let us return home as defeated prisoners, but as men who were willing to fight until the last. I know the risk, we all do, and I won't force any of my men to fight. But for those who want to, and it is the majority of them, we would rather give our brief lives taking back our freedom, than spend the rest of them lamenting that we could not even lift a hand to help our saviours. I would rather die today than live another fifty years with that weight upon my shoulders, slowly grinding me down."

Michael's earnest desperation stopped Steve from saying 'no' on the spot. Though Peggy would no doubt have his head for it, he could easily understand Michael's feelings. How could he send these men home without their pride? Already, they faced a long road to recovery, and there were some things that doctors could not provide. But Steve could.

"Alright," he relented. "But you work as a team. Three of you to a guard. You don't tackle any groups, and you fall back with the other prisoners if things start to go sideways."

"Don't worry; we won't get in your way. We'll just take a little of the heat off you."

Michael stood and stretched, and as he walked to the door, there was a spring in his step that hadn't been there before. "I'm going to have my last drink of gritty water in the Godforsaken place. When we get home, I will take you and your men to the best pub in London, and we'll toast our victory together."

 _Lord, I hope so_.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Nightfall brought cloud, and Bucky was fine with that. He didn't need the moon and the stars to see by; the camp's floodlights provided all the illumination he required to make his shots. Those guards were sittin' ducks.

He checked his watch. Eight-thirty. Just a half hour until the shift change. Soon they'd all be heading back to England. But first, he had a job to do.

He crept to where Agent Carter was resting, in the same small hollow that he'd slept earlier. She'd finally managed to doze off, and had slept soundly for hours. A couple of hours after what should've been lunch time, Steve had appeared in the camp's yard, and signalled another message to him. _Nightfall. Cover Michael_. As if Bucky needed reminding of the personal mission Steve had given him.

At the hollow, he reached down to shake Agent Carter's shoulder. "Hey, Agent Carter, wake up."

She snapped out of sleep and onto her feet with such speed, that Bucky was reminded of a school trip to the zoo, where he'd seen a viper striking lightning-fast at the mouse the zookeepers put into its vivarium. Thank God she didn't have a gun in her hands!

"Sergeant Barnes?"

"Who else would be waking you up?"

"I don't know. It's dark. I can barely see a thing. What time is it? Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

Clearly, her eyes were still clouded by sleep. Sure, it was dark, but there was light enough to see the rocks on the ground and the outlines of the trees swaying in the wind.

"It's eight-thirty," he said. And, because he saw her open her mouth to upbraid him, "I didn't wake you sooner because I wanted you to be well-rested for the rescue. Steve's already sent me a message to say we're going ahead as planned, and I've been watching the camp like a hawk."

"Then we should get into position, just in case they move earlier than expected." They wouldn't move earlier than expected. Bucky had watched enough shift changes to know the HYDRA soldiers ran that place like clockwork. You had to say that about Germans; they were sticklers for time-keeping. "Which way back to the cliff?"

"This way," he said, turning.

"Sergeant, I can't _see_ which way 'this way' is. You'll have to lead me."

Geez, maybe her eyes really were taking a long time to adapt to the darkness. No matter; they'd soon have a view of the camp and its floodlights that would ruin both their night vision.

He took her by the sleeve and guided her around loose stones, back to the overhang that had been their uncomfortable waiting place for the past two days. Creeping forward, he looked down his scope as Agent Carter employed the binoculars. When she spoke again, there was envy in her voice.

"I wish we'd brought another of those rifles. We would be twice as effective at taking out the guards."

"There wasn't room in the truck for another sniper rifle," he said, telling her what she already knew. "And Stark hasn't finished building the second weapon."

"I know. But I can still wish it."

He knew all too well how she felt. Until she could get a gun in her hands, she was effectively an observer. And observer who'd planned most of the logistics of the mission, but an observer no less. Perhaps there was something she could do, though.

"Would you mind calling out my shots?" he asked.

A quiet snort told him what she thought of _that_ idea. "Sergeant, you're more than capable of finding and hitting your own targets."

"Yeah, but I'll only have a limited view of the camp." He'd already memorised and practiced—with the safety catch on—moving from one tower to the other in turn, and was pretty sure he could make the shots with even less lighting than what was available. "You'll be able to see more. You might see men in trouble, or you might be able to better call the shots to disorientate the guards. I'd hate to miss something important."

"Hmm. Well, I suppose that makes sense. The binoculars do have a much wider field of view than the rifle. Very well, you take the shots as you've planned, and I'll call out anything that needs your attention."

Movement down in the camp caught his eye. Though a few prisoners were milling around the water pump, this person moved with focus towards one of the guards. It was Monty! What the hell was he doing?

Monty and the guard spoke for a moment, and Bucky desperately wished he had some way of knowing what was being said. If this was part of Steve's plan, he hadn't mentioned it. Was the idea to coax the guard inside and jump him for his weapon? Was this a signal to Bucky to take out this guard first?

The guard turned and led Monty away, and Bucky's confusion deepened. He wished he had someone to give him some orders, but there was only Agent Carter, and she liked giving orders so much that the last thing he wanted to do was encourage her. Besides, maybe this was all a part of Steve's plan. If something had gone sideways, Steve would abort the rest of the plan. All Bucky had to do was keep watching, and be ready to act. Or not act, as the case may be.

He glanced briefly aside. Agent Carter's posture was rigid. He could've balanced a spirit level across her shoulders and found them perfectly level. He couldn't recall ever seeing her this tense before, not even after Wells tied her to a tree back in France. Pissed off, yes, but not tense.

"Do you ever get nervous before missions?" he asked.

"Not usually. Though I must admit that I'm feeling a certain level of trepidation over this one. I suppose that's only natural, when there's a personal investment. What about you? Any pre-mission nerves?"

"No. Not anymore." The more missions he went on, the easier they became. The more men he killed, the less the killing weighed on his conscience. There had been no easy introduction to war; he and the rest of the 107th had been thrust into it. They'd killed men and lost men on their very first mission. A baptism by fire. Besides, the piece of him that regretting having to kill had been left behind on some cold metal table, and he wouldn't get it back until he'd put a few bullets into the man who'd taken it.

A blare of sound came thundering from the camp, forcing Bucky to put aside all thoughts of Zola and revenge. For the moment, there was only the mission.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Not long after Monty left for his meeting with the camp's _kommandant_ , the guards arrived to escort the prisoners to the mine. Michael managed to slink away in the direction of the electric fence. His intention was to activate the device's timer and throw it over the fence to prevent the guards discovering it quickly. Noise coming from outside the fence would seem like a genuine attack, rather than an internal distraction.

Steve didn't have long to wait. No sooner had Michael returned to the group when the most atrocious noise came blaring from a couple of dozen feet outside the fence: Captain America, ordering his enemies to stand down, to the tune of one of his shows. One of Stark's more embarrassing inventions.

The effect on the camp was immediate. Guards began yelling and hurrying towards the source of the cacophony. Spotlights were swung in the direction of the sound. Shots were fired into the darkness. Steve could not have hoped for a more convincing distraction.

"Quickly," he hissed to the remaining Commandos. "To the truck!"

The prisoners were well-informed. Steve and his team dodged emaciated men who fled to pre-arranged hiding places. Those who'd come out of the mine turned back and ran into it; their guards ignored them, because once in the mine, they were effectively trapped.

"Captain Rogers! Over here!"

The call drew Steve's attention to the facility's large garage; Antoni was waiting for him beside their commandeered truck. He'd already made a start on recovering the weapons, and handed the smaller sidearms over to Jones, Dernier and Morita.

"Where is Major Falsworth?" he asked.

"Dealing with the kommandant. He'll join us as soon as he's able."

"Good. It won't take them long to realise this is merely a ruse. Soon, we will need every pair of hands capable of carrying a weapon."

"Where's Pawel? I thought the two of you would be sticking together."

"Pawel decided it would be better for one of us to keep an eye on Weimer. He does not handle stress very well. He has been sweating profusely since we arrived. Here, Captain. I believe this is yours."

Antoni tossed him the shield Stark had made for him, and he smiled at its familiar weight. As far as he was concerned, the shield was worth a dozen pistols. Though he was still getting used to fighting with it, he could imagine endless possibilities. If he threw it _just so_ , it would fly in an arc and return to his hand. Depending on how much force he put into the throw, the shield could perform a gentle flight, or knock a man clean off his feet.

The last weapon produced was Dugan's shotgun. The guy was even more attached to that gun than Steve was to his shield. _Ol_ _' Reliable,_ he called it, on account of how many times it had saved his life.

"Is everybody ready?" Steve asked. He received a round of 'aye' and 'yes' and 'oui' in return.

"I just hope Sleeping Beauty isn't dozing on the job."

"Even if he was," said Morita, "the sound of Cap ordering a surrender oughta have woken him by now."

"Alright, let's do this," said Steve. He accepted the pistol offered by Antoni, and led the way out into chaos.

The noise-maker was still active, but it was being ignored by men who were frantically firing at random into the empty air around them. Steve didn't have to wonder why for very long; a pained cry from above was followed by a body dropping like a sack of stones. The Commandos scattered, and the body hit the ground with a sickening crunch. Judging by the hole in his chest, the guy had been dead before impact. A small mercy.

Another guard fell, his outline clear to Steve's enhanced eyes. Bucky was certainly creating an effective distraction. The camp guards couldn't pinpoint his location; perhaps they thought there were multiple shooters. It was a perfect time to strike.

He threw his shield horizontally towards one of the guards on the ground. It hit the man's head, bounced off his helmet, and returned straight to Steve's hand. He threw it again, this time up at one of the towers, and dislodged a supportive wooden beam. The two men atop it wobbled and clung on for dear life as the structure began to lean.

Several figures rushed from the shadows towards the falling tower; Michael and his men took quick advantage of the situation, clambering over the broken frame to knock out the guards and take their guns.

Another guard came running around a corner of a building, and Steve had no chance to call out a warning as the man pulled the trigger of his weapon. A flash of blinding white light shot through the air towards Michael's group, and his stomach lurched. The English soldiers threw themselves aside; too slow. One was engulfed in flame that did not burn, and his scream echoed inside Steve's head even after his body had been vapourised into nothingness.

"Michael!" Steve ran towards the men. Bullets whizzed past him. One grazed his shoulder. He ignored the pain. Pain was nothing. He would sooner suffer all the pain in the world, than tell Peggy her brother had been killed. That there wasn't even a body to take back and bury.

One by one, the Brits picked themselves up. Steve rushed through them, checking every face, as around him the screams of the dying rang out.

"Where's Michael?!" Steve demanded.

"I'm here."

The familiar voice was like a glass of cold water on a burning hot day. Michael cradled his left wrist in his right hand as he pushed himself up from the splintered ruins of the guard tower, but he was alive.

"We lost Turner," one of Michael's men said.

"Captain Rogers, look out!"

The look in Michael's eyes had Steve turning even before the verbal warning. He spun on the spot, towards the HYDRA soldier stood with his weapon pointing straight at his head. He drew back his arm, knowing even before he could release the shield that it was too late. That he would be dead before the shield even left his hand.

Another bright flash of light. Steve closed his eyes… but the moment of pain did not come. When he opened his eyes, when the after-image of the flash cleared, the soldier was gone. Standing off to the side was Falsworth, his nose bloody, one eye swollen, with one of the enemy rifles in his hands.

"Sorry I'm late, Captain. The _kommandant_ was a rather vicious fighter, for such a small man. Coincidentally, I think my nose may be broken."

"No need to apologise, Major. You arrived in the nick of time. Now, take Captain Carter and his men, and secure the vehicles. We're going to need them all to get out of Poland." And that should keep the English prisoners out of trouble.

Monty saluted and led Michael and his men towards the garage. Steve turned his focus back to the rest of the battle. Dernier and Morita were tackling a group of guards who'd holed up in the soldiers' barracks. Dugan and Jones, meanwhile, had taken shelter beside the prisoner barracks, where they were pinned down by a group of guards. Men still fell from above as Bucky continued to take his shots, but Steve could tell that his best friend didn't have a line of sight on the guards keeping Dugan and Jones in place. Steve would have to deal with them himself. He drew back his arm, and prepared to throw his shield.

Keen reflexes, or perhaps an act of providence, told Steve to duck and roll at the last moment. His action saved his life; the bolt of weapons fire that would've erased him from existence instead hit the bare ground. The shield flew from his grip even before he'd regained his feet, cutting through the air towards the source of the weapons fire. It hit the soldier square in the chest, sending him flying backwards.

A roar of defiance thundered from the mine, followed by the rumble of footsteps. Two dozen Jewish prisoners rushed forward, towards the guards nearest to them, uncaring of the bolts of destruction cutting through their ranks as they wrestled their captors to the ground.

Didn't _anybody_ listen to Steve's plans?!

"Get back into the mines!" he yelled at them. They promptly ignored him.

The remaining guards fell swiftly; they stood little chance against the combined force of the Commandos, the now-armed Jewish prisoners, and Bucky's lethal accuracy. Mere moments after the Jews stormed the yard, the last of the guards was captured. Though Steve didn't know what the final death toll would be, he knew it was above the threshold for acceptable losses.

He strode over the bullet-ridden bodies that littered the ground, all of them HYDRA. Those hit by the guards' weapons had no bodies left to bury.

"What were you thinking?" Steve asked Steinberg. The man had a weapon in his hands, though he held it tentatively. "You were supposed to leave the fighting to us. You were supposed to stay safe."

"Captain Carter told us his team would be partaking in the battle," Steinberg countered patiently. "We could not sit by and do nothing. Most men here have lost everything: their homes, their families, and everything they ever held dear. Many of us have nothing to go back to. Nothing to hope for, except perhaps that justice will one day be meted out to our captors—if any of us even survive that long. For many of us, this was our final act of defiance. One last chance to show the Nazis that the Jewish people will not go quietly to the end of our days, no matter when or where that end might be. I offer no apology, Captain Rogers, and I expect no forgiveness."

"Alright, I understand where you're coming from. Just get your people together. We need to move as soon as we have the trucks ready."

As Steinberg started to organise the Jewish survivors, Steve made a round of the camp. A few prisoners had been taken, though they didn't survive long. Those damned cyanide pills again. Just like in New York.

"It's a thing that they do," Jones explained, after Steve's first failed attempt to question one of the guards ended with the man choking on his own bile. "We travelled the whole of France without managing to capture a single one alive."

As unpleasant as it was to see men biting down on suicide pills, it did at least solve one problem: Steve wouldn't have to ponder the conundrum of what to do with the guards taken prisoner. And he wouldn't have to listen to Bucky offer to 'clean up' the mess again. It was a small thing to be grateful for.

When the final cost of the rescue came in, it made for grim listening. As well as Michael's man, Turner, six Jewish prisoners had lost their lives, along with Pawel. In the absence of a body for identification, the latter was related by a very pale-faced Weimer.

"He died saving my life," the German scientist explained in a croaky voice. "We were firing at the guards, and one of them turned his gun towards me. Pawel jumped in front of me, and the beam of light took him."

"Death has been a constant companion in this camp," said Steinberg. "I wish that she would be satisfied with this final meal, but I fear that we will see her again before this is over."

"Not if I can help it," said Steve. He turned to Dugan and Jones. "Go through the guard barracks. Bring out any spare uniforms you can find. Steinberg, can you gather the other prisoners and meet me at the garage?"

"Of course, Captain. We will be ready to leave on your command."

Inside the flimsy wooden garage, Monty and Michael's team were making the vehicles ready for departure. Monty stepped away from the work to offer Steve a sitrep.

"We've filled all the tanks with petrol, and done our best to make the backs of these things comfortable with a few spare blankets we found in storage, but I'm afraid it's going to be a cold ride for the prisoners. One of the lorries also lacks a spare tyre, so we'll have to hope that the four it has remain in good condition during the journey."

"Good work, Major. I've asked Dugan and Jones to gather guard uniforms and bring them here. When they do, we'll change into their clothes, so that we can pose as guards during our journey. In the meantime, will you take care of sending a message across the radio?"

"Just leave it to me. I'll send a convincing message."

Monty darted off, leaving Steve to survey the activity across the camp. This mission had taken longer than anticipated, and the losses had been higher than he'd hoped, but it could've gone much worse. At least Michael was still alive. So many families had been torn apart by this war, that it would be good to see one put back together.

* * *

 _Author's note: Steve and Danny thank you for the birthday wishes, passing guest reviewer!_


	98. Homeward Bound

We Were Soldiers

 _98\. Homeward Bound_

The trek down the hill took forever. Every step seemed to last a lifetime. Peggy wished she had the power to leap from its height and land safely beside the road… but a part of her savoured the delays. Soon, very soon, she would see her brother again. She would have to face him, and tell him that he'd been right. And he would know that she'd given up on him. Mourned him, and moved on. Would he ever be able to forgive her? Even if he could, _should_ he? He had every right to be furious and disappointed with her.

"C'mon Agent Carter." Sergeant Barnes' features were barely discernible in the darkness as he looked back over his shoulder. "We can't miss the rendezvous."

How on Earth had he got so far ahead? Surely she hadn't slowed her pace by that much, had she? It didn't matter. She jogged the distance to catch up with him, and let him lead the way down to the road. As she walked, she tried not to dwell on _what might be_. All she could do—all _anybody_ _—_ could do, was deal with events as they arose. Perhaps somehow, somewhere, an alternative universe existed, in which Michael never made it out of the camp alive. She was glad it was a universe she did not have to live in.

Beside the road they waited under cover of the trees. Normally a fan of silence, she now longed to escape it. To fill the moments with something other than thoughts of what she would say to Michael. Every time her mind strayed there, it went blank. She, who had never struggled for words, was at a loss about what to say to her brother.

"That was some very good shooting," she offered. "Howard would've been very impressed with your proficiency." Indeed, Sergeant Barnes had taken shot after shot with rhythmic efficiency, each shot sending its target departing swiftly from the world of the living. According to her count, he hadn't missed a single one.

He merely shrugged at her praise. "I just wish the rifle had a faster rate of fire. I'm pretty sure I could've done better if I'd had time to take more shots."

How much he had changed, since France. She remembered a man made queasy by his first kill. Now, his greatest regret was not that he'd had to take a life; it was that he hadn't been able to take more. That was the true toll the war took on soldiers. Not the losses that it inflicted on their friends and allies, but the losses it inflicted upon them. War would take the soul of any man who allowed it. When they returned to England, she would speak to Steve about helping Sergeant Barnes to find something else to fight for.

The chug of an engine further up the road stopped her thoughts in their tracks. Sergeant Barnes moved, but Peggy reached out to grab his arm and prevent him from standing.

"It may not be our people," she hissed.

"It's a road that leads only to the camp. Who else is gonna be coming down it at this time of night?"

He was right. She wasn't thinking logically. Thoughts of Michael were occupying her mind. There was nobody but Steve and his team left in that camp. She'd seen for herself, through the lenses of the binoculars, the carnage wrought during the fierce but brief battle. All HYDRA personnel were dead. Several prisoners had been killed too. At one point, a guard had fired at Michael's team, and Peggy's whole world had come momentarily crashing down. Then, the dust had settled, and Michael had appeared, and Peggy had simultaneously cursed him for his foolishness and thanked God for his survival.

She let go of Sergeant Barnes' arm and followed him onto the road. The truck slowed, and as it did, she spotted another pair of headlights behind it, and another behind that. When all three vehicles had stopped, Steve jumped out the back of the lead truck—and another figure followed. A figure that, until now, Peggy had only seen from a distance.

"Michael?"

He stepped forward, into the pale beam of the truck's headlights, and Peggy's breath caught in her throat. Even standing in front of her, she barely recognised the pale, emaciated man as her own brother. Her brother had never worn a beard, and his hair had always been immaculately combed into place. Her brother had enjoyed playing cricket and football; this man looked like the effort of holding a bat would be to much for his body to bear. Her brother had been tall and strong and full of life; this walking skeleton's shoulders were stooped beneath the weight of years of captivity.

"Look at you," said Michael. "My little sister, all grown up."

Tears welled in her eyes, until all she saw was a blurry shadow in front of the truck lights. He may not have looked like Michael, or moved like Michael, but he _sounded_ like Michael. The long years of deprivation had not silenced his voice.

She stepped forward, letting him pull her into a fierce hug that she dared not return for fear of hurting his frail body. The smell of blood and sweat and everything bad drifted from his threadbare clothes to her nose, and fresh tears fell. None of it mattered. She'd bring him home. He'd be able to eat and bathe and wash away all that had happened in the camp, burying it beneath a blanket of comfort until he was fully recovered. Until she looked at him and saw the man her brother used to be. Perhaps that would be enough to quench the fires of her guilt.

"I knew I'd see you again," he whispered. "I knew I'd get a chance to make things right."

"You're here," she said, pulling away to look into his eyes. They, like his voice, had not changed. There was still a spark of life left in them. "That's right enough for me."

Steve stepped into view, his forehead creased with worry-lines. "I'd love to give the two of you more time, but we really need to get going. If we can make it to the rendezvous point before dawn, we stand a much greater chance of getting away without interference."

"Of course." Letting go of her brother was one of the hardest things she'd ever done. Now that she'd found him, all she wanted was to wrap him in swaddling and keep him safe in her arms until she could deliver him to her parents. If she could do that, if she could get him home and see him brought back from death's door… well, half the war was won. Where there was hope for one man, there was hope for all. "Come back into the truck," she said. "Sergeant Barnes and I have a backpack full of hardtack that you and the other prisoners can make use of."

"So long as you don't mind the taste of cardboard," said Barnes, from over her shoulder.

"You must be Captain Rogers' best man," said Michael, offering his hand.

"His best friend, certainly," said Barnes, shaking his hand. "Best man probably depends on who you ask. And just for the record, don't believe anything Dugan tells you. The man's a pathological liar."

Before Dugan could offer an interjection and delay their departure even further, Peggy chivvied her brother back into the truck, and clambered inside to join him. The sight inside was one of wretched despair. Many sat and lay wherever they could find space, their frail bodies crammed in like cattle to the slaughterhouse. The stench of so many dying and unwashed bodies made her eyes water, and not out of pity. This was going to be a long ride home.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

In the darkness of the truck, the snores were deafening as thunder. Peggy bit down on her lip to stop herself speaking out and suggesting they wake the sleeping men. These men needed sleep, and the snoring wasn't so loud that it would be heard from the road.

Their route back to their rendezvous point had hit a bump in the night. At one of the checkpoints they'd previously passed through without issue, a large force of Nazis had gathered. Steve had counted a dozen vehicles of all sizes, and a company of men. None of them could think of any good reason for their force to be there, save for the commotion they'd caused at the HYDRA camp. Steve had taken Falsworth, Dernier and Dugan, all dressed in their purloined HYDRA uniforms, for a stealthy closer look at what was happening at the checkpoint. Morita and Jones, who were never going to be able to pass as HYDRA soldiers even if they wore the uniform, were with the prisoners in one of the other trucks, whilst Sergeant Barnes slept in the back of the truck Peggy and Michael shared with a dozen other prisoners. The fact that he mumbled quietly in his sleep told Peggy that he was _really_ sleeping, and not just faking it.

"How are mother and father?" Michael asked quietly, so as not to wake those who'd found the comfort of slumber. "And don't give me a platitude. Tell me how they really are."

"They're coping," she admitted. "Father works longer hours than he ever has before, and mother keeps busy with her volunteering. She organises womens' events, in support of the war effort. I only get chance to visit every few months, but I must admit, the house I grew up in no longer feels like home to me."

Michael nodded along to her sentiment, then too-casually, added, "And Fred? He's well?"

She reined in the urge to kick him. Healthy Michael would've laughed at her defiance. POW-Michael would probably have his leg broken by it.

"I've only spoken to him once, since calling off the wedding. And that was to return the ring. We didn't exactly exchange pleasantries."

"If it's any consolation, I'm sorry things didn't work out between you. Though I must admit," he said, giving her a familiar old cheeky smile, "I like your new man a lot more."

"My 'new man'?"

"Captain Rogers."

How presumptuous! She scoffed loudly, and opened her mouth to correct him. But before she could even get her first word out, he interrupted her intended tirade.

"Oh, don't give me that, little sister. When he speaks of you, he's like a blushing schoolboy with a crush, so at first I thought his feelings were unrequited. But I saw the look in your eyes as you watched him take a team to go reconnoitre that Nazi checkpoint; that was genuine concern I saw there."

"It's not like that," she countered. " _We_ _'re_ not like that."

"Then maybe you should be. If you like this man, and he likes you, then you shouldn't let anything stand in your way. Not life, nor death, nor war. You owe it to yourself to find as much happiness as you can in this world, and hold on to it with every ounce of your strength."

"Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?" she asked. His words were so unlike his parting shots at her, that it was hard to believe they were spoken by the same man.

"I just got a little perspective, is all. When you're facing death in a Nazi _stalag_ , it kinda makes everything else seem… trivial."

Though she had never been in that situation herself, she could see his point. How many regrets had he lived in that camp? How many lost opportunities? The man who had come out of that camp was different to the one who had gone in. She would have to get to know her brother all over again. Just as she's told Steve, and his pig-headed best friend, that they would have to get to know the new men they had each become during their trials. How ironic, that her advice should come back to haunt her like this.

"What do you think of him?" she asked. "Captain Rogers, I mean."

"He seems a humble man," her brother replied. "Subtle as a sledgehammer, though I've yet to meet an American who understands the meaning of the word 'subtlety.'"

Humble. Yes. It was a description that fit Steve perfectly. He'd grown up poor, his mother his only family, and had put himself through college. Fame, rather than going to his head, had grounded him even further, and he was completely oblivious to the envious glances of men and the lustful stares of women. In his head, Steve Rogers was still the studious, shy kid from Brooklyn.

"I get the feeling that there's more to the Captain than meets the eye," Michael continued. At which Peggy could only smile.

Speaking of the devil, Steve and his team returned from their reconnaissance, and none of them looked happy about what they'd found. He called a meeting of the Commandos, and Dugan trotted off to the other trucks, to bring out Morita and Jones. Steve himself shook Barnes' leg until his friend awoke, bleary-eyed and yawning widely. As Steve dove in to his report, Barnes rooted through the backpack full of equipment, pulled out two ration bars, and ate them both.

"It's a fairly large gathering," said Steve. "While we watched, a couple of the vehicles took about a dozen Nazis off down the eastern road, but the remainder don't look like they're going anywhere. They're camped on either side of the road. The road which happens to be the only route to our rendezvous point in Prussia."

"Can we cut across country?" asked Michael, who'd invited himself to the meeting because he was an inquisitive busy-body. Nothing at all like Peggy.

Steve shook his head. "The terrain's too rough, and there are too many of these dense woodlands. We'd have to go on foot, and it's a long way. Even if my team could make it, the majority of the prisoners wouldn't."

"We need a diversion," said Barnes, swallowing the last of the second ration bar. "Something to draw them away from the checkpoint."

"We could parade you out there," Dugan suggested. "Awe them with how much food you can eat in one sitting."

Barnes flipped him the Vs.

"A diversion is a good idea," said Michael, right before Peggy could say it. She quickly clamped her mouth closed. Michael was insufferable when he knew he was right. "What did you have in mind, Sergeant Barnes?"

Barnes shrugged. "An explosion. Something big and flashy, to get their attention."

"That would be a great idea, if only we had something explodable," said Morita.

"Last I checked, gasoline was highly combustible, and we have three tanks full of the stuff."

Morita scratched his head. "Oh yeah. I forgot about that."

Steve stood up, and all heads swivelled in his direction. "I have a plan."

Barnes groaned. "Last time you said that, we ended up riding back home from Coney Island in a freezer truck."

"Actually, that was your plan."

"Alright, alright," said Dugan. "We can stroll down memory lane when we're back on friendly soil. Besides, we all know Barnes' plans are terrible. Let's hear what you've got, Cap."

"An explosion isn't going to be enough to draw the majority of the enemy forces away. Even if some of them go to check it out, others will stay behind. They might even send a message calling for backup. What we need, is something for them to chase. I could take the smallest of the trucks and use it to ram right through the checkpoint, breaking the barrier and giving the troops a reason to come after me."

Barnes raised his hand and yelled, "Shotgun!"

Even before he spoke, Steve shook his head. "Sorry, Buck, but I need you and the rest of the team to escort the men we've rescued to the rendezvous point. Besides, for what I have in mind, it might be too difficult for anyone else to pull off."

"I already hate this plan, then."

"What else did you have in mind?" asked Falsworth. "I hope you don't intend to let them catch you."

"I intend to lead them on a chase away from your route, then take the truck as far into a wooded area as possible before lighting the tank." He turned to Dernier. "Jacques, could you rig me some sort of fuse to ignite?"

A childish grin crept across Dernier's face. The man truly was a menace with explosives. "Bien entendu. Easy."

"Hey, why don't we use the noise-maker as well?" said Jones. "I recovered it after the fight at the camp. Stick it on the hood of the truck and have it blaring out as you drive through the checkpoint."

"Oh sure," Barnes scoffed. "And why doesn't he hang out the driver's window and take shots at them while he's at it?"

Steve, in that sweet, innocent way of his, nodded his head and took the suggestions entirely seriously. He patted the gun at his hip. "I do have some bullets left. And the noise-maker will definitely help get their attention."

"I do hate to be the voice of reason, Captain," said Falsworth, though he said it with some amount of regret, "but I think I have spotted a flaw in your plan. If you blow up the truck, how will you reach the rendezvous point?"

"I'll steal a vehicle from one of my pursuers. Or I'll steal the first one I come across. Drive it as far as I can, and go the rest of the way on foot."

"On foot? That's crazy!" said Barnes. "You'll never make it to the rendezvous in time."

That stubborn look flared in Steve's eyes. The same look that's appeared every time Hodge had kicked him down during testing for Project Rebirth. The look that said Steven Grant Rogers was not going to be told 'no.'

"I will make it," he said. "And if by some chance I don't, the rest of you will take the boat back to Gotland and I'll find another way of getting home."

"Like Hell you will!" Barnes was on his feet as fast as the scowl appeared on his face. "We don't leave people behind. Ever. That's the rule."

"I have to agree with Her Highness," said Dugan, gesturing with his thumb in Barnes' direction. "We go in as a team and come out as a team."

"Hear hear," said Falsworth.

"I'm not going back to England to tell Phillips we left Captain America in Poland," said Morita. The 'Captain America' part got a questioning glance from Michael, who probably hadn't been brought up to speed on Steve's abilities yet, but nobody took him on.

"You know, I could order you to go on ahead without me," said Steve.

"And then have us court-martialled for mutinying on our second mission?" asked Jones.

"You cannot do distraction without my 'elp," Dernier added. "If we must leave you behind, I not 'elp."

"For whatever my opinion is worth," Michael spoke up, "if your plan requires you to potentially sacrifice yourself, it's a bad plan. We should find another way."

Steve threw up his hands in defeat. "Fine! You've all made your points. I'll be at the rendezvous point, and you better make sure you wait for me. In fact, I'll probably be there before you. Try not to keep me waiting too long, alright? Now, if there are no more objections, can we please start making preparations? Jones, Falsworth, Carter—Captain, that is—empty that small Czech truck and get all the prisoners transferred to the other vehicles. Dugan, Morita, help Dernier with whatever he needs to get a fuse system set up, and transfer some of the fuel to the other trucks, I don't want them running dry before you get to the rendezvous, and they'll be carrying more weight now."

"I have a question," said Peggy. "How will you steal a vehicle?"

"Well, uh, I'll jump inside and drive it."

"And if there's no key? Do you know how to hotwire an engine?"

"Y'know, I left basic training before we covered that subject."

"Then I suppose I'll have to show you. That way you've no reason not to make the rendezvous, have you?"

"I… uh… you make a good point. I'd be grateful if you could teach me how to steal a vehicle." A sheepish grin tugged at his lips. "Mom would be so proud to hear me say that."

She led him to the nearest truck, and instructed him to pull away the protective panel covering the engine ignition wires. Not realising his own strength, he pulled the panel away, and snapped off part of the dashboard with it.

"Err, I hope that wasn't anything important," he offered.

Luckily, it wasn't, though the vehicle's horn would never work again.

"Lean in a little closer, so you can see," she told him as she pulled a flashlight from her pocket.

The man who was ready to take on a whole platoon of Nazis by himself leaned forward so gingerly that he seemed afraid of even touching her. Did he think she might take offence? Sure he knew her better than that.

"You're going to have to come a little closer, Captain, if you want to see which wires you'll need to find. I promise, I won't bite."

"It's not that," he said quickly. Then, more hesitantly, "I sorta took a bullet, back at the camp. It went through, but my shoulder hasn't healed up yet."

Fool man! How could he expect to carry out this crazy mission if he was injured? She shone the flashlight at him, and he winced at the brightness.

"Why didn't you mention this before? I'll have a look at your injury. Take off your shirt." He stared open-mouthed, so she added, "Captain, I've seen you without your shirt on before."

"I know, but this is hardly the time or place to be doing this. I promise, once we're safely on the boat, you can poke at my shoulder all you like. It will probably be healed by then anyway. Right now, I need you to show me how to hotwire an engine so that I can get going before more of the night is wasted."

She sighed. Should've known he'd be stubborn about it. He and Barnes really were two of a kind. "Very well. Since your shoulder isn't causing you enough pain that it warrants first aid, I'm sure you'll have no problem leaning in to see what I'm doing with these wires. I don't want you accidentally shorting something out and getting yourself stranded."

He rose to the challenge admirably, leaning in so close that his shoulder brushed against hers in a stark reminder of how much bigger he was than every other man. It was a wonder the HYDRA uniform fit him as it did without coming apart at the seams. She could still remember seeing him emerge from the vita-ray cradle, and how every jaw in the room had dropped; even hers. When a nurse handed over a shirt, it was one several times larger than the one he'd taken off only moments earlier. If only those women who fawned over Captain America could've seen Steve Rogers before the serum. None of them would've looked twice.

Perhaps Michael was right. Life was often too short and too unpredictable. Maybe it was time to admit that she _did_ have feelings for Steve. She always had, since the moment she saw him struggling to pass the SSR's tests. Watching him try desperately to earn the respect he deserved was like looking back in time, at her own life's journey. Yes, the SOE had wanted women to work as operatives, but what they had really wanted, just like the rest of society, was obedient women. Brave women, yes, but women who would follow orders and not deviate from plans even if the situation warranted it. The SSR allowed more flexibility. It was a better option, even if she did have to fight for every inch she could get.

"I was thinking," she said, as casually as she could manage, "perhaps when we return home, we should go out for dinner one night."

Steve straightened up so fast that he clunked his head on the inside of the door frame. Wincing as he rubbed the sore spot, he asked, "You mean… like… well, on a date?"

"Yes, though it could be dinner between friends, if you prefer."

"No, a date is fine. Better than fine. It would be great. To go on a date. With you. I've been wanting to ask for some time, but I wasn't sure if the timing was right."

"The timing may never be right. We could wake up one day to find that time has passed us completely by, and the opportunity has gone forever."

"I couldn't agree more." He smiled, and the sincerity of it made her heart skip a beat. "Just so long as we don't have to dance."

"I promise there will be no dancing," she agreed. "Maybe even no music. I won't even so much as hum a tune."

She finished showing him the fine art of hotwiring an engine, and they returned to the waiting group. Sergeant Barnes' grin and wink at Steve was beyond childish. Michael was right; Americans did not understand subtlety at all.

"The noise-maker's rigged up on a five minute timer," said Jones. "Should give you plenty of time to get into position."

Dernier handed over a cigarette lighter. "Is not so much 'fuse', as 'rags.' Once you light, perhaps thirty seconds before fuel tank ignites. Maybe less. Don't be near explosion this time, comprendre?"

"Yeah, I _comprendre_ ," said Steve. He just wasn't taking this seriously at all. The man thought that just because he'd survived a couple of explosions in the past, that he was invincible. The bullet that had gone through his shoulder ought to be evidence enough that he was not as invincible as he might've believed. "Give me a ten minute head start, then head out to the road. Hopefully by then, I'll have the majority of the troops a couple of miles away. If there are any guards left, ignore them. Don't stop, not even if they shoot. Just keep going. I'll meet you at the rendezvous point."

"I still think I should be going with you," said Barnes.

"No offence, Buck, but you'd only slow me down. Anybody would. This is something I gotta do alone. Don't worry, I won't do anything _too_ stupid."

The two men hugged briefly, and the rest of the Commandos saluted. Peggy wanted to slap them all for putting on such brave faces when their Captain was off on some lunatic mission, but she was doing exactly the same. She wanted to hug him tightly and tell him to be careful _or else_ , but the brave face wasn't for everybody else's benefit; it was for hers. She couldn't afford to let fear and doubt creep in.

They watched as Steve climbed into the rickety old truck, their reliable chariot, and started the engine. They watched until he'd driven down the feeble earthen road to where the line of concrete provided a swifter journey. As the truck disappeared from sight, Michael asked, "What did he mean when he said anybody with him would slow him down?"

"Come and sit down," Peggy said, taking him by his arm. "That's a long story."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

When Steve had come up with his great diversionary plan, he had negated to factor one thing into his calculations: Real Life was not like the movies. In his head, Steve had pictured the whole plan from start to finish. First, he would tear towards the checkpoint, engine roaring, noise-maker blaring heroically, smash straight through the barrier—which would invariably splinter into a thousand pieces and maybe disable a few guards in the process—and then go thundering down the road while the Nazis scrambled to chase. The pursuit would be swift and intense. Steve would look in his rear view mirror and see their headlights far behind him. He'd put his foot down, and the Germans would try their darnedest to keep up.

The plan had not started out badly. The engine roared, because it was Czech, and probably under considerable strain. The noise-maker… well, it blared out, but it seemed to have gotten wet, so that his voice sounded garbled, as if yelled from underwater, and the background music was off-pitch. The crowds would not have been impressed.

The wooden barrier splintered, but not as cleanly or as destructively as he would've liked. The whole truck shook with the force of the impact, and the front bumper was ripped off at one side. It dragged along the road, sparks flying beneath, for almost a mile before it finally gave in to friction and fell off completely.

Now, the pursuit had truly begun, and he didn't have to look in his rear view mirror to see his opponents. German engineering turned out to be quite good, and the vehicles kept up with the truck very well. Every so often, one would draw level, and the Nazi in the passenger seat would take a few shots at him. Ducking took him out of harm's way, but also meant he couldn't see the road. The first time he lost sight of it, it curved to the left while the truck continued straight. He felt bad when he side-swiped an enemy jeep and sent it tumbling over and over down an embankment. Then he remembered that these men wanted to kill him, and he felt a little less bad about it. The next time a jeep drew along-side, he swerved into it, grateful that Czech engineering, whilst not particularly speedy, was very robust.

As another vehicle fell back to a more respectable distance, Steve breathed a sigh of relief. Then, something went _BANG!_ The truck began to list like a small boat taking on water.

"Shoot," he grumbled, as he fought the steering wheel to keep the truck straight.

 _BANG!_

The second rear tyre was shot out, but at least the truck was no longer tilting. Still, the two front wheels were dragging all the weight, the judging by the way the engine was screaming in complaint, he knew he couldn't keep this up much longer. Time to blow stuff up, and hope that not every mission he went on would end in an explosion.

Up ahead, he spotted a small access road. He'd purposely dimmed his headlights, to preserve his night-vision, and the road was as clear to him as it would've been in broad daylight. He kept his speed up until he was almost at the junction, then swerved tightly onto it. What tyres were still left squealed angrily, and the whole thing almost rolled onto its side. It seemed the only thing keeping the truck going at his point was his own force of will, and he wasn't sure how much longer that would last.

Reaching down, he groped for the large stone he'd put there earlier, and when he found it, he quickly pulled his foot off the accelerator and put the stone there instead.

"Just keep going a little longer," he said, patting the steering wheel. "I promise your sacrifice won't be in vain, and you'll get a viking funeral. Well, the fiery part of it, at least."

Thinking fast, he removed his purloined belt from his trousers and used it to lash the steering wheel to the headrest of his seat, so that the truck would at least stay fairly straight. Then, he turned, and pulled the lighter from his pocket. Dernier had done a good, if strange, job. The fuse was a length of rags that'd been torn into narrow strips, tied together, and doused in gasoline. The whole thing draped over every high surface and snaked across the floor before disappearing into a small gap that probably fed straight in to the gas tank. This had probably been the only way to give Steve enough time to get away from the explosion. It was some pretty good thinking from Dernier, to say he'd been put on the spot and forced to improvise.

"This one's for all the guys who didn't make it out of the camp," Steve whispered. He struck the lighter, and a flame danced to life.

The truck rocked violently as a wheel found a pothole, and Steve was knocked off balance. The lighter slipped from his grasp and landed on the floor in front of him… right beside the mid-point of the fuse.

He held his breath. One flicker, and the gas-soaked rag would go up in flames. _Please don_ _'t, please don't,_ he desperately pleaded with it as he reached tentatively forward.

But it _did_. Perhaps just to spite him. Perhaps because its cousin-explosions hadn't managed to do more than singe him the last times. The flame _jumped_ from the lighter, straight onto the rag. Steve's heart started flailing in his chest.

"Double shoot!"

He scurried back into the cab, braced his upper body against the passenger seat, and swung both legs to kick the driver's door open. The scenery flew by, rocks and trees and bushes of the thorny variety, but he had no choice. It was now or never, and he couldn't afford _never_ : he had a date with Peggy to keep!

Her smiling face flashed before his eyes as he leapt from the cab, giving him the strength and courage to do something stupid. Again.

The ground greeted him with a full-body handshake, but he had no time to think about his pain. He let the momentum of the fall carry him, rolling him down a short embankment until he hit the bottom and had the wind knocked out of his lungs. In the darkness, the Nazis missed his departure, and kept following the truck until, just a few seconds after Steve hit the ground, the whole thing exploded in a brilliant fireball that engulfed vehicles and foliage alike.

"Dernier, I owe you one," Steve said. He pushed himself to his feet, checked for broken bones, brushed the dirt from his HYDRA uniform—or rather, smeared the dirt around on it—and set off in the direction of the explosion. Hopefully, one of the vehicles would be suitably unscathed. Otherwise, he knew at least half a dozen people who were going to be really pissed at him.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky pointedly _didn_ _'t_ bite his thumbnail as he sat watching the road to the dock. Over the horizon, the first light of morning was lazily making its way across the sky. Soon, very soon, that light would come rolling into the bay, and the small ship would become visible to the naked eye.

As if to prove that point, one of the crewmen jumped down from the deck and jogged to where he and Peggy sat on the harbour wall, keeping their own private vigil.

"Sergeant, Agent, if we do not leave now, we may not reach Gotland. This ship was made to run at night, when there are no eyes to see her."

"We're not leaving until every member of our team is aboard," said Carter. She didn't glare frostily, which Bucky had been expected, but her tone said she would not be argued with.

"If we are caught, hundreds of missions just like this may be jeopardised. The food we bring through the blockade may not reach those who need it. There is more to this war than one man."

"Not this man. Now, if you want to make it back in one piece, I suggest you go and make the ship ready for departure. The _moment_ Captain Rogers arrives, we'll get him aboard, but I won't hear any further talk about leaving before that moment."

The man spat, and strode back to the ship issuing an angry tirade of foreign curses that faded as he went below deck.

"Do you speak Swedish?" Bucky asked her.

"No."

Probably a good thing. No telling what she'd do if she knew what that guy was saying about her. Probably shoot him in the kneecap.

"Don't worry," he told her. "He'll be here."

"I know." She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, for all the world reminding him of his sister, Mary-Ann, when she disapproved of something. "What _state_ he'll be in is another matter. That man seems to invite trouble."

He nodded firmly. "People never believe me when I tell them I'm the sensible one."

She snorted.

"What?!"

"Seen any vampires, lately? Or did you leave them all behind with the 107th?"

Great. Just great. He should've known Wells' bullshit was going to follow him around for the rest of his life. And Carter was exactly the sorta dame who never forgot a piece of bullshit, no matter how small it was.

An engine chugged along the road above the harbour, the vehicle hidden from sight by a protective wall. Bucky was on feet only a heartbeat before Carter, and he took a few steps forward, squinting in the semi-darkness at the shape above. Some sort of truck. He could just about see the roof of it over the wall. It chugged to a stop, and Bucky smiled. Trust Steve to leave it to the very last minute. Guy sure liked his dramatic entrances, these days.

His reflexes saved him. He heard the sound of a bolt-action rifle being loaded before the first bullet hit the rocky shore at his feet. Unthinking, he jumped backwards, pulled Carter into his arms, and rolled them both over the wall that had been their seat only seconds ago. He landed on his back, rocks poking through his threadbare shirt, stabbing painfully into his skin.

" _Weapons!_ " Carter yelled at the boat as she rolled off him and let him sit with his back against the wall. Gasping for breath, more out of shock than exertion, she asked, "How did you know?"

"I heard them. They weren't exactly being quiet. _Where are our weapons?!_ " he aimed at the boat.

Dugan's head popped up, then ducked back down as somebody took a shot at it. "Jesus Christ, Barnes," he shouted. "Who ordered the party?"

"Now who's going to Hell for blasphemy, you bowler-hatted madman?!" he yelled back. "Come somebody _please_ throw me a gun?"

Several pistols were flung over the side of the boat; two landed close enough for Bucky and Carter to grab one each. Finally armed, they turned to peer over the wall and take shots back at their attackers. But they had the low-ground, and Bucky didn't have his rifle. Their shots _pinged_ uselessly off the wall.

Over the din of gunfire, the sound of a commotion drifted up from below deck.

" _That is it, we are going!"_ said the ship's Captain.

" _Captain, I must insist you take your hand off that wheel and step aside. We cannot leave while Captain Rogers is still out there."_ Monty.

" _I do not care for your insistence, Major; those men shooting at us will have signalled our location. Within moments, a fleet of Nazi ships will be here. Or worse, U-boats. We can only outrun them in open water. Here, we are sitting ducks."_

" _Dugan, restrain that man!"_

Crashing. Banging. The sounds of men struggling with each other. The ship's crew against the Commandos. And Bucky pinned down by Nazis, unable to get off an accurate shot, unable to return to the ship to help his team. Once more, useless.

Another engine approached along the road. Agent Carter hunkered back down against the wall. "They have reinforcements. Within minutes, they'll have this harbour surrounded. Maybe the Captain is right. We can leave, get these prisoners to safety, then come back for Steve."

"No."

"Sergeant—"

"I mean, no, I don't think these are reinforcements. There's something different about the sound of this engine. It's not the same. Smaller. Much smaller."

As the engine neared, voices shouted out in German. The _ping_ of bullets hitting their wall ceased. The voices turned to cries, and Bucky dared to peer over the wall. He couldn't see what was happening, but German soldiers were being thrown like rag dolls over the wall… and it was quite a drop. Then, something red, white and blue flashed through the air before disappearing from sight.

"It's Steve!"

He couldn't help grinning like a school kid. Steve had made it, and just in time to pull their bacon out of the fire. That ship's captain was gonna eat his words, even if Bucky had to force-feed him each one.

Steve made short work of the Nazis, and the sound of the engine chugging along the road continued as it wound down into the harbour. When Bucky saw his friend approach, his jaw damn near dropped open. It was Steve, and he was riding a _motorcycle_. One with a Nazi swastika emblazoned across a small flag at the back.

At the road's end, Steve slowed the bike, grinned at his waiting friends… and then the whole thing toppled sideways, Steve included. He rolled the last few paces, finally coming to a stop at their feet.

"Uh, I haven't actually had chance to work out how to dismount the thing," he explained, picking himself up from the ground. "Guess I missed something."

"And you can tell us all about it later," said Carter. "But right now, we have to go, before the crew tosses us overboard for mutiny."

She chivvied them both aboard like a mother hen tending to her chicks. Below deck, the sight of Steve stopped the fight for the ship's control in its tracks.

"Thanks for waiting for me," Steve said. And everybody, crew and Commandos alike, broke off from the punches and kicks they'd been delivering. "I think we should get going."

"Glad to have you back, pal," said Bucky. He clapped his friend on the shoulder and led him down into the hold, where the prisoners were waiting. "Now, tell us all about your grand motorcycle adventure."

Steve gave him a boyish grin. "First, do you mind if I get a couple of hours of shut-eye? I don't think I've slept in three days, and it's finally starting to catch up with me."

"Sure, pal. Take your time."

And maybe one day, somebody would even make their story into one of those Captain America movies. Wouldn't that be something for the folks back home to see?

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: Hope you've enjoyed this little foray into Poland. You can expect to see more of Michael shortly, and chapter 100 is something we've all been waiting a very long time for. Thanks for reading!_


	99. Lizzie

We Were Soldiers

 _99\. Lizzie_

"And then I made my way towards the explosion, hoping to commandeer one of the vehicles," Steve explained. "Unfortunately, they'd all been too badly damaged in the blast to be of any use, so I was forced to return to the checkpoint. I was lucky; they were still in disarray, and I managed to disable the men who were left. I tied them up inside the guard-post, and had one of them explain to me how to use one of the motorcycles; they were the only vehicles left, by that point. The soldier didn't speak very good English, though, so I pretty much had to figure it out by myself. I caught up with the rest of the team at the dock,we dispatched a small group of Nazis who'd tracked them there, and then we came home."

He had to hand it to Colonel Phillips' the guy could do deadpan like nobody else. It was all but impossible to determine what the Colonel was thinking by the expression on his face; it barely ever changed.

Beside him, Bucky shifted slightly. His friend probably took exception to the details Steve _hadn_ _'t_ included in his report, such as the minor mutiny, and then the six U-boats the _Tycho_ had almost not outrun. But Phillips didn't need to know that stuff. It wasn't mission-critical.

"Have you anything to add, Sergeant Barnes?" Phillips asked.

"No sir. It's all in my report." Bucky gestured at the typed report on the desk. He'd pulled his face when Steve had asked him to report to the Colonel, but Peggy had gone to the hospital with the rescued prisoners, and the rest of the Commandos were still aching from their stint in the mines. Bucky was the freshest, and he'd also been outside the compound, so would be able to give the Colonel a more rounded view of the mission. He'd complained about having to type up his own report, but once behind a typewriter, he seemed to get into it pretty quickly, and he didn't make nearly as many mistakes on his report as Steve had. Those typewriter keys were just too damn small and close together.

"Fine work, gentlemen. A few more missions like this, and you might start wiping some smirks off faces back in Washington. Your team can stand down for the next couple of days. Get some R&R. I want you fresh as daisies when I send you back out there."

"Yessir." They both saluted and, when dismissed, left the office.

It was a small weight off Steve's shoulders. Every time he submitted a report, he expected to be judged for it. So far, he'd given Phillips no reason to be disappointed in his team. He hoped it was a feat they could all keep up.

Now that the official stuff was out of the way, he could go to the hospital. Visit some prisoners. Make sure they had everything they needed. He wouldn't purposely seek out Peggy, because she had enough on her plate, but if their paths should cross… well, maybe he'd bring up the subject of that date. Or would it better to wait until Michael was back home and Peggy back at work? He didn't wanna be one of those pushy guys. He could be patient. But where would he take her? And what would he wear?

 _Your army uniform, idiot. You know you have to wear it while out in public_.

As he and Bucky stepped into the elevator that would take them back to street-level, Bucky asked, "Do you think they ever served?"

"Who served what?"

"Those smirking men back in Washington. The ones who push paper around desks and pull our strings. Do you think they ever served? I mean, they call all the shots, but do they have any experience of what it's like on the front lines?"

"I dunno. I guess some of them did. You probably don't get to rise to a position of power like that without relevant experience."

Plus, he had to believe that the men giving the orders knew what they were doing. War was a crazy thing. _Somebody_ had to be able to make sense out of it.

At the top of the elevator shaft, the doors creaked open, and he followed Bucky outside. The streets of London were quiet. Hard to believe that this city had once been the capital of the most powerful country in the world. If the Nazis weren't stopped, would New York follow? Would its men be thrown into war on home soil? Would its women walk teary-eyed down the streets and wonder how long it would be before they got a letter telling them their husband, son or brother would never return?

A nudge on his arm broke him out of his melancholy mood.

"You're awfully quiet," said Bucky.

"Just thinking about the war," he admitted. "They made me to stop Schmidt, but even if we take down HYDRA, it's not going to end there, is it? There's more at work here than one mad scientist."

"Yeah." Bucky smiled, but it stopped at his lips. His eyes still had that tired, haunted look about them. "Y'know, I think I preferred not knowing about HYDRA. Everything seemed a lot simpler, back when I was just fighting regular ol' Nazis. All of this crazy science stuff… its not for me. No offence. I'm glad you came out of it as you did."

"I suppose that is the one good thing to come out of all this. I finally have a chance to make a real difference in the war. We just went to Poland, and we came out alive. If we can do that, we can do anything, right?"

"Anything?" A familiar mischievous gleam shone in his friend's blue eyes, reminding Steve of ten year old Bucky about to do something naughty. "Even ask a pretty dame out on a date? I heard bits of your conversation, y'know. She's up for a good time, so you should show her one."

"What would your mom say if she knew you'd been eavesdropping?" he warned, shaking a finger at his friend.

Bucky was totally unashamed. "It's not like I did it on purpose. I was on the other side of the truck, and it wasn't as if the two of you were talking quietly. Anyway, you're avoiding my question. You're gonna ask her out, right?"

"Right." He nodded. Yes. He was definitely gonna ask her out. "As soon as her brother's back home with his family."

"Aww, c'mon—"

Steve lifted his hand to halt his friend's complaint. "Buck, I've been there. I know what it's like to have a family member in the hospital. Your whole life revolves around visiting times. Around what you can and can't bring in with you. Around when—if—your loved one is going to come home. Peggy and her family are going through so much right now, that I want them to have this time to adjust. Then, when Michael's settled in back home, and things are a little more stable, we can go out for dinner without her worrying that something's gonna go downhill while she's away."

"Alright. I guess you know best."

"Besides, I still need to find somewhere nice to take her."

"You should ask Monty," Bucky suggested. "He's bound to know all the best eating places in London."

"He probably does, but I don't wanna have to go running to the team every time I want to do something with Peggy. I should be able to go on a date with her without the input from five other guys." Besides, a date with Peggy would be away-time from the day job. Much as he appreciated a little advice from his friends, he didn't want them sitting over his proverbial shoulder, whispering in his ear during dinner.

Bucky stopped walking, his eyes alight with some momentary inspiration. "I just had a great idea." He gave Steve's sleeve a quick tug, then jogged down the road, shouting, "Come with me!" over his shoulder.

Steve jogged after his friend, because there was no stopping Bucky when something got into his mind. That was how Steve had ended up going to senior prom with Mary-Ann. Well, that, plus no other girl was willing to go with him. At least with Mary-Ann, things hadn't been awkward. She was more like a sister than anything else.

Bucky's pace slowed as they reached a familiar landmark. Steve almost groaned as they stepped into the _Fiddle_.

"Buck, it's one o'clock in the afternoon. Don't you think we should wait until after lunch to start drinking?"

"We're not here for the drinks."

They made their way to the bar, where a familiar face was busy drying freshly washed glasses with the cleanest bar-rag Steve had ever seen. When they pulled up seats, Lizzie smiled at them.

"Welcome home, Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes. And congratulations on your successful mission." She laughed when she saw the expressions on their faces. "Stand behind a bar, and you'll hear everything there is to know about this war. Just don't tell MI5 that this is the place to come for information. Anyway, what can I get you boys?"

"We're not here for drinks," Bucky told her. "Not yet anyway. The rest of the team are still napping. But Steve here could use some words of advice. It's about…" he lowered his voice and cupped his hands around his mouth, as if partaking in some great conspiracy, "…women."

"Then you've come to the right place. What's on your mind, Captain? Or should I say, _who_ _'s_ on your mind? No wait, let me guess; brunette, about 5'6'', could stop a man's heart in a red dress?" She laughed again. "I've seen the way you look at Agent Carter. And the way she looks at you. It's about time you did something about it."

"I'll leave you two to talk in peace." Bucky gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then hopped off his stool and disappeared out the door before Steve could even open his mouth.

Lizzie put down her glass and her rag, and leant against the bar to give him her full attention. "So. What in particular has got your knickers in a twist?"

 _Knickers in a_ _…?_

He cleared his throat. "Mostly, I need to know a good place to take her for dinner. After that, it's knowing what to say. And how to say it. And what not to do."

"What are you looking for in a venue? Clearly you're after more than ale, salted peanuts and the accompaniment of your team's noise in the background, otherwise you'd bring her here. Do you want music? Dancing? M—"

"Definitely no dancing!" he interrupted. "If I can find somewhere without a dance floor, even better." That way there wasn't even a chance of Peggy talking him into trying.

"Alrighty then. In that case, there's Wiltons, on King Street; their signature is oyster dishes, but they don't come cheap. Then there's Simpsons Tavern, off Cornhill, opposite Ball Court. They serve steaks, and again, it's pricey. If you want something that's not taken a hit from rationing, there's Rules, in Covent Garden. They mostly serve game dishes, so they're not quite as expensive as the others, but not every lady likes game; it tends to have a very strong flavour compared to other meat."

"Which would you prefer to be taken to on a date?"

"Well, I don't like seafood, so Wiltons would be out for me. I'd be happy at either of the others, though for a little extra, Simpsons will make your dinner extra special with a red rose and a small candle on your table. On the other hand, I'm guessing Agent Carter isn't your average date. She's probably eaten some pretty horrible stuff, out in the field, so maybe her expectations are different. If you really want something personal, why not do a picnic?"

"Uh, because it's January, and whilst _I_ might not freeze to death sitting outside for an hour, Peggy would certainly feel it."

"Perfect. Offer to keep her warm in your arms."

He aimed one of _those stares_ at the red-head. Lizzie merely chuckled.

"And we English have a reputation for being prudish. Is there some English in your ancestry, perhaps?"

"All I want is a successful dinner with no mistakes or interruptions," he explained with as much patience as he could muster. "Just dinner. It doesn't have to lead somewhere, or have an end goal. We just both need to have an enjoyable time."

"When you plan your missions, are they without some end goal? Do they not need to have an impact on the war effort?"

"Did you seriously just compare a date to warfare?"

She offered a quick shrug, and by way of explanation, said, "This pub is frequented by soldiers, sailors and fly-boys. I compare _pulling pints_ to warfare. Dating is just the same thing on a different battlefield. Think about you. You both have your own hopes and expectations. You go into a date trying to figure out your opponent's plans and find a way to come to terms without it ending in a full scale battle."

"I don't know whether to ignore everything you just said, or offer you a job in the SSR's strategic office." Hitler would never see Lizzie coming. "Regardless, I appreciate your input on venues. Should I take her some flowers when I pick her up?"

Lizzie quickly shook her head. "No, save the flowers for something special. Her birthday, maybe." Steve made a mental note to find out when her birthday was. "Just keep it simple. You, her, food. The less you put into it, the less can go wrong."

Steve rested his elbows on the bar and ran his hands through his hair. There was more to dating that met the eye. Bucky had always made it look so easy. All he had to do was smile, and the dames fell over themselves at his feet. He'd never had to agonise over eateries, or whether flowers were too much. But then… Bucky had never dated anyone like Peggy.

"Topics of conversation I should avoid?" he asked.

"Well, I'd say 'work', but when work is war, and war is the current way of life, it's hard to avoid it. But if you have to talk about work, make it more about her than about you. Show interest. Compliment her when appropriate. Don't exaggerate your own deeds."

That didn't sound too difficult. How could somebody meet Peggy and _not_ show an interest in her? She was the most fascinating person he'd ever met. She wasn't just smart and beautiful, but hard-working, dedicated, brave, and spontaneous. He never _quite_ knew what she was going to say or do next. She was the sort of women who could keep a man on his toes for the rest of his life.

Lizzie clicked her fingers in front of his face several times, pulling him back into the pub.

"Thought I'd lost you for a minute there."

He offered a conciliatory smile. "Sorry. Just thinking about something."

"You don't say. Anyway, that's about all the advice I have for now. The rest is up to you."

"Thank you, Lizzie, you've been a big help."

"Any time, honey," she replied with a genuine smile. "Just let me know how it goes, okay?"

"Like you wouldn't find out anyway."

She laughed, at that. "Too true, too true. Say hello to Dugan for me, won't you?"

"Sure thing, Lizzie. See you later."

When he stepped out of the _Fiddle_ , it was with a more confident spring in his step. He felt about as prepared for this date as he ever could be. Now all he had to do was get through it without messing it up.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Peggy's eyes fluttered open to sunlight streaming in through her bedroom window. Had she forgotten to close the curtains last night? She couldn't even remember. It had been so late when they'd brought Michael home that her mind was a fog. It didn't help that Mother had cried as he was discharged from the hospital. And during the journey home. And as Michael explored the house for the changes wrought since he'd last been there.

When the tears had finally ceased, there had been supper. It wasn't a very _good_ supper—just crusty bread and a little broth—but that worked out well, because Michael was under strict instructions to limit his food intake until his energy-starved body could handle larger meals. During the five days he'd been back in England, he'd eaten six tiny meals per day, often no more than what could fit in the palm of his hand.

A familiar tune drifted from the ground floor of the house, rousing her fully from sleep. It was a song she hadn't heard in a _very_ long time, and with it came a memory she had almost forgotten.

Defying the cold of winter, she ignored the full set of clothing folded neatly on the chair in the corner of the room, and instead opted to slip a bathrobe over her nightgown, and fluffy slippers onto her feet. Wrapped up relatively warmly, she crept out of the room that had been hers since she was born, avoided the creaky floorboards on the staircase so as not to wake her tired parents, and tiptoed into the drawing room.

"Is that Chopsticks?" she asked the figure at the piano.

Michael glanced over his shoulder, his face still pale and gaunt but no longer full of scruffy beard. "Glad you remember. Do you want the melody, or the harmony?"

"The melody, if I can even remember it. You were never any good at the melody."

He scooted over without missing a beat, letting her sit beside him on the stool. It took a few moments for the memory to come back, but her fingers remembered what her mind had forgotten. They moved almost of their own accord, gently dancing over keys as Michael played the less intensive harmony of the song. When he fudged a couple of notes, he merely said, "Guess I need a little more practice."

A few bars later, it was Peggy's turn to get the notes wrong. "Guess I do as well," she said.

For several moments she let her mind go blank as the tune wound its way through her memories, pulling her back to a time when, at the behest of their piano teacher, she and Michael had tried their first duet. It hadn't gone well. They'd argued for days about who would play which part. Michael had complained that her smaller hand-span meant she missed more notes than she hit; she'd complained that he purposely set too fast a tempo for her to keep up.

"I'm sorry," she said. They were words she hadn't been able to say, until now. In the hospital, mother or father were always around. The long overdue conversation had had to wait. Now, though, it was just the two of them. No interruptions.

"For what?" he asked.

She stopped playing, her melody falling silent. Playing was too hard when she needed to focus on her words.

"For not trying harder to find you. When they told me you were dead, I just accepted it. We all did. I should've dug deeper. I should've looked for you."

The harmony faltered and finally stopped as Michael turned to face her. There was a tiredness in his eyes that she'd never seen before. Not on him, at least.

"From what you tell me, these HYDRA people are very good at making folks disappear. You had no reason to believe I wasn't killed in action. And for what it's worth, I'm glad you found something you love doing. You were made to wear that uniform, Peggy. Now that you have it, you've got a chance to make a real difference in this war. You can save lives, just as you saved mine."

"It's true, I do love the job," she admitted. "You were right about that, at least. I would've made a damn good wife… but I think I make a better Agent."

"And speaking of the job, when are you going to get back to it?"

"When I'm sure you're well enough to be left alone," she said. "There's no telling what trouble you may get yourself into if I leave you to your own devices."

"Don't worry about me, little sister. I have plenty of spare time now. I'm going to plan out the rest of your life for you… when you'll get married, when you'll have children, where you'll live… it will give me something to do during my convalescence."

She slapped his arm with enough force to tell him that there would be no _meddling_ in her life. He merely laughed.

"Seriously though Peggy, your work needs you. I have mother here, to… well… mother me. I suspect I'll be going along to all the ladies' club meetings. No doubt I'll be fattened up like a suckling pig soon enough."

The chime of the doorbell interrupted her response. "Now who could that be at this hour?"

"Probably the post man," he said. "Do you want me to go?"

"No." With a smile, she gestured at the piano keys. "You need the practice more than I do."

"Good idea. I'll stay here and practice the piano. You go answer the door. In your bathrobe."

Drat the man; he had a point. The neighbours would surely talk if she went to the door dressed as she was. Then again, the neighbours hardly needed any excuse to talk; they were all such nosy busybodies.

"Very well; you get the door." She gave an imperious wave of her hand. "Perhaps when you return, I'll make us a pot of tea."

She turned her focus back to the piano and _plinked_ a few keys. Was it her imagination, or was the whole thing out of tune? Hardly surprising, if it was. Neither she nor Michael had played the thing since they were teenagers, and mother only kept it for the entertainment of guests. Mother often hired a pianist from London to perform when she entertained company… or at least, she had, before the war. The pianist had been drafted into the Army; only God knew where he was, now, or whether he was even still alive.

"Come in, we're just through here," Michael said. "Peggy, we have company."

Horror-struck, she turned and watched Steve Rogers, sweaty in an SSR exercise uniform, step into the room. What in the blazes was Michael _thinking_?! She pulled the bathrobe a little more closed.

"Ste… I mean, Captain Rogers," she managed. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Steve took the questions—and the sight of her sitting in her bathrobe—in his stride. "Yes ma'am, it's ten-twenty-five in the morning."

Really? It was that late? She must've been tired indeed, last night, to sleep so long into the morning. Then again, it had been a difficult few days for all the family.

"What brings you out here, Captain Rogers?" Michael asked. He was _grinning_. The idiot!

"Well, I went to visit you in the hospital earlier this morning, to see how you were getting on, but they told me you were released yesterday. And as I was passing by on my morning run, I thought I'd take the opportunity to see how you were settling in, and whether there's anything you need."

"Very kind of you, Captain! Isn't that kind of him, Peg?"

Later, she would kick her brother. Hard. On the shin. Both shins.

"Yes, very kind. Do you regularly run over this way?"

Steve nodded sincerely, and she realised that he meant every word he'd said. He really _had_ been to the hospital to check up on Michael. And he really _did_ come running here every day.

"It's part of my routine," he explained. I start off in the city centre before making my way up here… I like to run away from the traffic. I was actually on my cool-down lap when I decided to stop by. Didn't want to inconvenience anyone too early."

"The man who saved my life is welcome any time," Michael assured him. "Isn't he, Peggy?"

"Yes, any time," she said, trying her best to keep from glaring at her interfering brother. "As a matter of fact, Michael was released last night, and it was quite late by the time we arrived home and sat down to supper. Our parents are still abed, though I suspect they'll be up soon for a late breakfast."

"Speaking of breakfast, would you care for a cup of tea, Captain?" Michael asked. "I was just about to make us a pot."

"Oh, thanks, but I really need to get back to the hotel. Take a shower."

"Of course. Well, I'll go and put the kettle on. Peggy, I'm sure you can see Captain Rogers to the door. Can't you?"

"Yes. Be careful with the kettle, won't you? Don't scald yourself."

Michael took himself off to the kitchen, where he was no doubt congratulating himself over his transparent scheming. Peggy quickly stood, made sure her bathrobe was still closed, and gestured Steve out into the hallway. It was one thing to _like_ a man, but quite another to let him see her dressed in such inappropriate attire.

"I'm sorry to catch you at such an inconvenient time," he offered as she led him towards the front door. "Perhaps I should've called ahead."

"Don't worry about it; there wouldn't have been anyone awake to take your call." But perhaps his arrival was fortuitous. "Are you heading back to the office later?"

"As soon as I've showered and changed."

"Will you tell Colonel Phillips that I'll be returning to work tomorrow? Michael's made it quite clear that he's more than happy for me to stop pandering over him."

"Sure, I'll let him know. It'll be good to see you back… the office isn't the same without you there." He hovered by the door, his hand resting atop the handle. "Since I'm here, and you're here… err, I wondered if it was a good time to ask you out for dinner. Soon. But not too soon, if you're busy. Or lunch, if dinner's not convenient."

"Dinner would be nice," she butted in before he could start rambling. "How does Friday night sound?"

"So… tomorrow night?"

It was Thursday already? The days since bringing Michael home had seemed to blend into one.

"I guess I've lost track of time," she admitted. "Would Monday night be okay?"

A smile lit up his eyes. "Monday night would be great. Can I meet you in the hotel lobby at eight?"

"Actually, I'll be staying here for a couple of weeks. Just until Michael has found his feet again," she said. "With my dad still working everyday, I want to be around in the evenings. Just in case."

"Oh. Right. Of course. How about I pick you up here at seven, then?"

"Seven o'clock," she agreed.

On his way out, his hand slipped right off the handle. When he finally had the door open, he stumbled over the threshold. As he waved goodbye with a dazed smile plastered across his face, he almost walked right into a lamp-post. It was hard to believe that this man was the greatest chance they had at defeating HYDRA. Or that he'd so quickly and thoroughly stolen her heart.


	100. The Date

We Were Soldiers

 _100\. The Date_

"Tell me again," said Bucky.

Steve took a deep breath and schooled himself to patience. The story of how he'd made an idiot of himself by turning up at the Carter residence and catching Peggy in her bathrobe was quite a hit with the Commandos. He'd decided to get away from the constant friendly ribbing by taking a walk through Hyde Park. Bucky had come with him, and on the way they'd found a fish & chips shop, plus a bench on which to sit and eat their greasy dinner.

"You've already heard it three times."

"C'mon, this is a tale I'll have to tell our grandkids! How Grandpa Steve wooed Grandma Peggy. I want to make sure the details are right."

"Since when do details matter to kids?" he countered. "I'm pretty sure there were no wardogs or female Indians during the Alamo, but that's how we played it in your back yard. Besides, grandkids? Don't you think you're skipping a few steps?"

Bucky merely shrugged, and popped another fry… chip… whatever… in his mouth. On the outside, he looked more like the Bucky that Steve remembered than he had since coming out of Krausberg. He'd put on some of the weight he'd lost over the past six months, and his skin was back to a healthier pallor. A proper haircut had also done wonders for his appearance. But behind his friend's eyes, he still saw shadows of some dark nightmare. The shadows came and went fleetingly, and sometimes Steve wondered if he was merely imagining it. But he suspected that, deep down, Krausberg still had its hooks in Bucky's soul.

"So, where are you gonna take her?"

"For steak, I think. It seems the safest option."

"Good call. Are you looking forward to tomorrow night?"

 _Tomorrow night_. It sounded so soon, so final, when it was said like that. Even though there had been no further missions, there had been intel to piece together. The weekend had run away from him, and he'd managed to avoid thinking about his upcoming date by focusing on his work.

"Partially looking forward to it, partially dreading it," he admitted. "Knowing me, I'll put my foot in my mouth at every available opportunity."

"Probably," Bucky agreed, in the worst display of solidarity that Steve had ever witnessed. "But then, you've already put your foot in your mouth plenty of times around her, and she was even willing to forgive your transgression with Private Lorraine—a woman who clearly has no taste." Steve's best friend was still smarting over the fact that Private Lorraine hadn't even offered to make him a cup of coffee the last time he'd been to see Phillips. "If Carter was so easily put off by your ginormous foot, she'd be a thousand miles away by now."

He hated to admit it, but Bucky made a pretty good point. Was it even possible for him to do anything worse than kiss another woman, at this stage?

"Wanna practise your compliments?" Bucky offered.

"No thanks, I don't need to practise. I'll just use my sincerity."

"C'mon, tell me I look lovely. If 'lovely' doesn't work for you, you could try 'amazing' or 'ravishing'."

Steve punched his friend on the arm and Bucky laughed. It was good to hear him laugh again.

"I guess you're right. You got this. And if you need a comforting thought to keep you going, just imagine how pissed Hodge would be if he found out you're going on a date with Carter. That ought to give you something to smile about."

The thought did indeed bring a smile to his lips. Hodge seemed to think that being a jerk was the best way to win a girl. It might win some girls, but not the type Steve was interested in. Not Peggy.

With a sigh, he tossed his empty wrapper into the nearest trash can, then stood and stretched his legs. "Thanks for the talk, Buck. You've managed to put my mind at ease somewhat. But I just realised there's one more thing I'll need before tomorrow night… and now I gotta go make a deal with the devil."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

He found Howard Stark in his lab within the SSR headquarters, burning the midnight oil; or at least, the late-afternoon oil. The inventor was tinkering with something that looked like a replacement for the electric chair, complete with ominous straps.

"Hey, Captain Rogers," Stark said, "come sit here for a moment, won't you?" He patted the chair.

"Uh, I'd rather not." Even though he had super healing powers now, he still wasn't sure he wanted to be exposed to whatever the strange straps and electrodes did. "What is it, anyway?"

"It's my patented teeth-brushing device. It runs off electricity! Think about how much time we waste each day brushing our teeth. Imagine how much more productive I could be if I had the use of both hands during those times! With the electric teeth-brushing device, we'll no longer be inconvenienced by oral hygiene; this invention will do it for us."

"It looks like a medieval torture device," Steve pointed out.

"Granted, there are a few aesthetics to work out before it goes on sale to the general public," Stark admitted. "I'll probably have to paint it. Maybe red, white and blue. The folks back home can then rest assured that by buying my machine, they're doing the patriotic thing."

"Just because you paint something red, white and blue, doesn't mean it's patriotic."

Stark gave him the old _'You're crazy,'_ look. "Clearly you know nothing about marketing. Anyway, if you _didn_ _'t_ come to try out my device, just what are you doing down here? You didn't break something, did you?"

"Of course I didn't break something. I actually came here to ask a favour. See, I have a date with Peggy tomorrow night—"

"Ah yes, I heard." Stark winked at him. "The ol' _'Oops, did I catch you in your bathrobe?'_ routine. Very slick."

"It wasn't intentional; it was a genuine accident."

"Riiight. That's why you didn't call ahead first."

Jeez, Stark was worse than Bucky for insinuatin' bad stuff! Couldn't a guy just make a simple mistake without it turning into some sordid intent?

"Anyway, what favour did you need?" Stark continued. "Money for diamonds? The phone number of a good florist here in London? Dining tips?"

"Nothing like that. I just wondered if I could borrow your car. I told Peggy I'd pick her up from her house, and I'd rather not do it in an army jeep. It just doesn't convey the right—are you okay?"

Stark's face was a shade paler than it had been a moment ago. "Rogers, do you know the two things I love more in this world than women?"

"Yourself and your country?"

"That is an insulting and inaccurate assumption. It's actually myself and my cars. But my country definitely comes in at a close number four. My point is, I wouldn't let my own _mother_ borrow one of my cars."

"Please, Mister Stark. It's just for one night, and I promise I'll be careful." He could see Stark's hesitation starting to wane. "How about I owe you one?"

"Two," the scientist corrected. "You already owe me one for Krausberg. I nearly lost Amelia during that flight… not to mention my life!"

"Fine, I'll owe you two. I always make good on my promises."

"And you also promise you'll keep the rest of those maniacs away from my precious baby?"

"If by 'maniacs' you mean my teammates… then yes, definitely. They'll have no reason to be in, or near, your car. If they are, something's gone desperately wrong."

"Well… alright. You can borrow Betsy. She's my Bentley. Don't even think about asking for my Roller."

"I wouldn't dream of it. The Bentley would be more than fine." He'd be driving around in a car that was probably worth more than a year's rent on his apartment. Maybe one day, he'd be able to afford his own car. Something sensible and practical. Something not a Bentley.

"Good." Stark opened up a desk drawer and began rooting through a pile of keys. When he finally pulled the one he wanted out, it came attached to a small, foldable corkscrew. "In case of emergency champagne situations. I doubt that's a problem you'll encounter." He pulled the corkscrew off. "Now, are you going to want the plastic covers for the seats?"

"What for?"

"For keeping the leather upholstery clean."

"No, we'll be eating in the restaurant. You don't need to worry about the seats."

Stark eyed him from head to toe. "You don't date much, do you?"

"No. Why?"

"Never mind." He held out the key. "Have her home by eleven."

"Sure."

"And remember, in England, they drive on the left."

"Drive on the left. Okay."

"Have you ever driven on the left before?"

"No, but how hard could it be?"

Stark snatched the key back before Steve could reach out and take it. "Alright, c'mon, I can spare an hour, and you're clearly in need."

"In need of what?"

"A driving lesson. I'm not having you crash Betsy because you were looking the wrong way at a junction. This war has claimed enough lives."

Mr. Stark really was taking this car thing _way_ too seriously, but he was hardly in a position to argue. So, he followed the man out of the building and into the parking lot.

"Are there any other countries that drive on the left?" he asked.

"Australia, India, South Africa… mostly countries formerly or currently under the British thumb," Stark rattled off. "Oh, and Japan. Nowhere important, really." As they approached the only Bentley in the very small parking lot, Stark tossed the keys over the hood. "Here, you take the wheel."

Steve scrabbled for the keys as they fell, and managed to pluck them from the air with enough grace to make it seem like a good catch. When he shoved the key into the door lock, however, he discovered it wasn't exactly required.

"Um, do you know your door's unlocked?"

"It is? Damn. I keep doing that. Back home, I have my butler do all the driving; I'm not used to taking care of these things myself. Don't worry about it, the car has a tracker on it. That doesn't mean to say you have carte blanche to just leave it wherever you please without locking it up. Only I'm allowed to do that. Well, hop in!"

Steve hopped into an interior that seemed more befitting of some old gentleman's club than a car. He ran his hands over the glossy surface of the dash. "Is this walnut?"

"I see you know your wood." Stark smiled and gave the dash a fond pat. "Had it custom made. Now, start 'er up and we'll make tracks."

"Right." The engine purred to life as he turned the key in the ignition. "Where to?"

"Wherever the wind takes us, my friend. Oh fine," Stark added, when Steve subjected him to a stare, "I'll call out directions. But let's get moving before we both die of old age."

Life was a funny thing, he decided, as he pulled out of the lot and—after prompting from Stark—checked the traffic coming from the right before making a left turn. If somebody had told him a year ago that he'd be driving around London in Howard Stark's Bentley so he could practice driving in time for a date with the most beautiful woman in the world, he would've laughed at them. If only his mom could see him now.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Your tie needs to be longer," said Morita.

"Your boots are all scuffed," added Falsworth. "Here, let me polish them for you."

"Are you sure you want your hair like that?" asked Dugan.

If Steve had ever wondered how many grown men could fit into one small hotel room, he now had the answer. Every one of the the Commandos had squeezed themselves into his room to help him prepare for his big date. Bucky had already fixed his hair into what he claimed was an 'all the rage' side-parted style, while Jones had personally seen to the laundering and steam-pressing of his spare dress uniform. The rest of the team were determined to chip in, in some way.

"I still think you should give her flowers," said Bucky. "A single red rose wouldn't be too tacky."

"I have a rose waiting on the table." He winced as Morita pulled his tie a little too tight at the collar. "And Lizzie said to save the flowers for a special occasion. Which reminds me; Dernier, next time you're at HQ, do you think you could do a little digging through the files for me? I need to know when Peggy's birthday is."

"Is easier just to ask her, no?" the Frenchman replied.

"It will be more romantic if I can surprise her with the knowledge."

When Morita finally stopped fiddling with his tie, he stepped back to look in the mirror. He had to admit, he cut a pretty impressive figure. He looked like the kinda guy he'd always envied. Strong, good looking, successful… a shame that his guts were churning like a bucketful of worms. How could he be _this nervous_ about one little date? He hadn't even been this nervous while jumping out of a plane over Austria!

 _Maybe the stakes were different then. I couldn_ _'t let myself be nervous because I had a bigger picture. I had to save Bucky. But Bucky's safe now. This isn't about him, it's about me. My happiness. Getting to know Peggy. Hopefully showing her a good time. It's not life or death, but it sure feels like it._

"Here you go, Captain," said Monty, handing back his boots. "Are you sure you don't want me to give Mr. Stark's car a quick once-over with the polish before you go?"

"Mr. Stark's car is already so clean that polish would probably dirty it," he snorted. Besides, Stark had made him promise not to let the Commandos near the vehicle, and it was a promise he kinda had to keep. "What time is it?"

Bucky consulted his watch. "Six-thirty."

"Six thirty?! I'm gonna be late!" He grabbed his jacket from his wardrobe and slung it over his shoulder, then picked up the car keys from his tiny bedside table.

"Don't worry, pal, it's fashionable to be late. Besides, everyone knows that dames take an extra twenty minutes to get ready. She won't be expecting you till at least seven-fifteen. You've got time to kill."

"But I made dinner reservations for seven-forty-five!"

The team followed him out of his room, down the corridor to the stairs, and then all the way into the lobby. The concierge at the reception desk tipped his hat and wished him a pleasant evening as he stepped out the front door.

"Good luck," said Falsworth, as Steve trotted towards the car Stark had kindly left out front for him.

"If I get a date, do you think Stark'll let me borrow 'Betsy'?" asked Morita.

"Remember to start on the outside and work your way in," Bucky called.

"That's no way to talk about a dame as classy as Carter, Barnes," said Dugan.

"I'm talking about cutlery, you mustachioed buffoon."

The rest of their banter was lost on him as he slammed the car door closed. The last view he had was of the entire team giving him the thumbs up—then he was off, into the night, to meet his destiny.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Peggy?" Mother pushed the bedroom door open wide enough to pop her head inside the room. "Do you need any help with your hair?"

"No thanks, I just need to pin it up, and it will be fine." It had been out of its rollers for almost half an hour now, and was finally ready to be tamed.

"Have you decided what you're wearing yet?"

"Yes, my blue dress with the black shoes." The blue dress would complement Steve's dress uniform nicely. Plus, it was one of the newer items in a wardrobe of clothes that she hadn't worn in several years. Most of the other dresses she'd worn when going out with Fred, and though they were _nice_ dresses, she didn't want any reminder of Fred tonight.

"How about some pearls to go with those?"

"Pearls would be lovely, thank you."

When her mother disappeared, Peggy slipped into her dress, pulled up a pair of sheer stockings, and slid the shoes onto her feet. She was just finishing pinning up her hair when her mother returned with a pearl necklace and bracelet.

"Here you are, darling. These will look lovely with that dress."

"Thank you, mother." As her mother fastened the pearls around her neck, she noticed in the mirror that she, too, was dressed finely. "Are you going out somewhere?"

"Actually, your father and I are going to visit the Winstanleys. It's been months since we last saw them, and it's past time we caught up with them."

"And the _real_ reason you're going?"

Her mother sighed. "Michael claims I'm being… overbearing. He said he'd like some time to himself, and since I don't want him leaving the house to find solitude and gallivanting around London in his current medical state, your father suggested we go out somewhere together. We haven't had any real time to ourselves since… well, that's in the past. I suppose it will be good to get out of the house together for a few hours."

"What Michael calls 'overbearing', I would call making up for lost time. Don't let his desire for privacy get you down, Mother. It will just take him a little time to adjust to being back home."

In truth, she felt rather helpless. The sound advice she'd given to Steve and Sergeant Barnes now went flying out the window, all because it was she and her brother in need of it. Somehow, it was easier to give advice than to take it, even when the advice came from oneself.

"I know." Mother stepped in front of her, to cup her face within her hands. "I don't think I've had chance to say it yet… but thank you. For bringing him home. I'm sure that if it wasn't for you and the SSR, we wouldn't even know that Michael would still be alive, much less have him with us today. I know I haven't always approved of your choices, but I have to admit that not only do you know what you're doing, you're doing it better than anyone else out there. I couldn't be prouder of you."

Peggy blinked back the tears pooling in her eyes before they could ruin her mascara. She knew she hadn't always been the perfect daughter that her mother wanted. She'd been unruly as a child, and just when it seemed she might settle down, she'd instead joined the SSR. Several times, Mother had lamented the fact that she'd never have grandchildren to lavish her care and attention on. It had made Peggy all the more determined to serve her country.

"Though," her mother said, with a conspiratorial smile, "I'm still not sure I approve of you dating an American."

"Oh, you'll get used to the idea." If her mother could finally accept her choice of career, accepting Steve ought to be no challenge at all.

"I suppose I will. Come on, let's finish pinning up this hair. You don't want to miss your dinner."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Light from the windows of the Carter residence spilled across the long driveway. Pulling up outside the front door, Steve took a deep breath before leaving the car. His watch said five to seven, but he'd had to drive a little faster than Mr. Stark probably would've liked to make it here on time. He'd only get one shot at a first date, so he really had to make this count.

He rang the doorbell, and waited. When the door opened, it revealed Michael, as pale and gaunt as he'd been four days ago. His road to recovery would be long indeed.

"Captain Rogers, please come in," said Michael. "It's good that you're early; Peggy hates to be kept waiting."

Thank God he hadn't listened to the Commandos. Turning up late to his first date would not have made a good impression. Not a good impression at all.

"Thanks." He removed his hat as he stepped over the threshold. "How are you settling back in?"

"My bed is too comfortable and the food too rich for me to eat very much of it," Michael admitted, "but I suppose they're small concerns in the grand scheme of things. And if they're the only concerns that I have… well, I'm doing alright for myself. Now, before Peggy shows up, I should give you _the talk_."

"The talk?"

"Yes, you know. Take good care of my sister, be a perfect gentleman, have her home at a somewhat decent arbitrary hour, and so on and so forth."

"I wouldn't dare be anything less than the perfect gentleman," Steve assured him. He'd heard enough of Bucky's 'the talk' speeches to know it was just part of an older brother's responsibilities—whether his sister wanted it or not. "And if it helps, I need to have the car back by eleven."

"Well, don't have her back _too_ early. Mother and Father are going out, too, and this is the first real chance for me to have some time alone. I love my family, but a man needs time to himself, on occasion, to mull things over and relax without the constant watchful eyes of his kin looking over him."

The idea of wanting alone time was nothing new to Steve. After his mom passed away, he'd wanted nothing more than to be alone to be upset and mourn her in peace. Bucky and his family had practically moved Steve into their house, and that was when Steve realised that there was a difference between being alone, and being lonely. The Barnes family had given him the space he needed to mourn Mom. They'd let him be alone when he needed it, but they hadn't let him give in to the darkness and loneliness that wanted to consume him.

At that moment, the sounds of heels descending the stairs caught his attention, and he turned to a vision of beauty so stunning that she took his breath away. He hadn't thought she could look more beautiful than she did in the red dress that she'd worn in the _Fiddle_ , but she somehow managed to outdo herself yet again.

"Peggy, you look… I mean… wow. I feel under-dressed."

"Well, it's not often that I get to wear a pretty dress and a pair of heels; I like to make the most of the opportunity." She squinted at him as she descended the last few stairs. "Have you done something different with your hair?"

He was gonna _kill_ Bucky when he got back to the hotel.

"Just combed it a different way. So. Are you ready to head out? Dinner reservations are for seven forty-five, and my driving on the left is still a work in progress."

A smile tugged at her rouged lips. "Are you sure you wouldn't like me to drive?"

"I need the practice." Besides, he could already hear the guys ribbing him for letting his date do the driving. He offered his arm, and his heart fluttered when she took it.

"Have a great time, you crazy kids," said Michael.

"Don't throw any wild parties while we're gone," Peggy countered.

Outside the house, Steve hurried forward to open the passenger door for her, and she slid onto the seat with the grace and poise of a movie star. Rita Hayworth had nothing on Peggy Carter.

"Is this one of Howard's cars?" she asked, as he fastened his lap belt and started the engine.

"He calls it 'Betsy.' I decided not to ask why."

"That's probably a wise idea. So, can you tell me where we're going?"

"It's not exactly a surprise. We're going to a place called Simpsons Tavern."

"Simpsons?" Her eyebrows rose. "It's a lovely place, but a little pricey."

He cleared his throat. "Have you been there before?"

"Once, a few years ago." She toyed with the handle of her purse for a moment. "I've heard that the cost of dinner there has gone through the roof since rationing took effect."

Thanks to Lizzie, he'd been forewarned about the prices. Reservations had not come cheap, but little did, these days. "Well, I'm getting an army pay; I might as well spend it on something I know I'll enjoy." A moment later, he added for clarification, "I mean a nice evening with you. Not just a piece of steak."

"Yes, I guessed that much. Do you think—"

Her words were rudely interrupted by the blare of a car horn thrown their way because Steve had edged out a _little_ too far at a junction.

"Um, maybe I should focus on driving, for now," he said, heart pumping like the pistons in a steam engine. Somehow, driving a dilapidated truck on a high-speed chase through Poland had been easier than this.

"Yes, that's a good idea."

Miraculously, they made it to Simpsons in one piece. There was no valet parking, but the British government—under the opinion that public gatherings were more dangerous in the era of _Blitzkrieg_ , had closed a nearby square and changed it into a temporary parking lot for local employees. At this time of night, it was conveniently empty, and had the advantage of being a very short walk away from the restaurant.

It was a quiet evening, not too cold and thankfully free of rain. Once more, he offered his arm, and Peggy took it. When they passed the glass window of a jewelry shop, he barely even recognised his own reflection. For a brief moment, he wished that Freddie and his camera had been there to capture the image of the tall, uniformed stranger and the beautiful woman by his side.

What was he supposed to say? Every time he glanced down at Peggy, she had a dreamy, far-away look in her eyes. She said she'd been to this restaurant before. Had it been with Fred? Was she remembering her fiancé? Would she compare that experience to this? The very thought brought a lump to his throat, and it wedged itself there like a lump of modelling clay. Perhaps it would be best to walk in silence.

At the restaurant, the maitre d' took their coats and led them to their table. When he'd called ahead to make the reservation, Steve had asked for a quiet table in the corner, and the maitre d' did not disappoint. The table was in the cosiest corner of the whole restaurant, surrounded by soft lamplight, and with a candle burning merrily in the middle of the table. There was no rose, but shortly after they were seated, another waiter came along with the flower and a slim glass vase of water for it to stand in.

"A beautiful flower for a beautiful lady," the waiter said, and Steve almost heaved a sigh of relief. They'd asked if he wanted to give a message with the flower, and he'd been hard-pressed to think of something on the fly. That sort of thing was more Bucky's forte.

"A lovely gesture. Thank you, Steve," she said. "But you don't have to impress me with flowers."

"I know. But I wanted to be able to do something normal." He hurried to elaborate as she gave him a questioning look. This was one of those conversations that he could so easily bumble. "I mean, we didn't exactly meet under normal circumstances, what with you training a group of would-be soldiers, and me trying so hard to be picked for the experiment. And everything I've done since then… all the radio work, and the photo shoots, and now the Commandos… don't get me wrong, I appreciate every opportunity I've been granted, but I don't want to miss out on the little things, such as having dinner with the most amazing woman I've ever met, and being able to give her some small gift. I want to do all the silly and pointless and little things, because they remind me of what I'm fighting for."

"I had no idea you felt that way."

"I guess it's the way a lot of soldiers feel. That was part of the reasoning behind Captain America. To remind the guys out here of all the things they love about their homes. Freedom. Democracy. Apple pie."

"And yet for all that, freedom and democracy are not universal constants in America. One's ability to flourish is highly dependent upon a number of factors; namely, whether one wears trousers or a skirt, and the colour of one's skin."

"I'm not saying it's perfect," Steve agreed. And tomorrow, at some point, he'd take a moment to write another letter to Terrence and his kids. Maybe get one of those photographs Freddie had taken of him in the costume, and autograph it for them. "Just that it's a good idea. The execution needs a little work, granted, but in another fifty years, maybe all men—and women—really will be equal."

The waiter returned to take their orders and bring them their wine, and Steve decided a change of topic was in order. He didn't want to spend the whole evening defending his country's imperfections.

"How's Michael settling in?" he asked.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose." She took a sip of wine, then dabbed at her lips with her napkin. Would she want him to kiss her, at the end of the night? He'd never kissed anybody before. Not like _that_ , anyway. "He's been through a difficult ordeal. He's not going to recover overnight. I know it might take weeks, or maybe even months, before he feels comfortable again."

"I know it's not easy, watching him go through all of this. All you wanna do is stick a bandage on where it hurts… but some things can't be bandaged, and some hurts run too deep. The best thing you can do is let him figure it out, and be there for him when he needs you."

"Is that the tactic you've taken with Sergeant Barnes?"

She was _far_ too astute for her own good. But then, that was part of her charm. He didn't have to draw a whole picture for her; she was perfectly capable of extrapolating it from a basic sketch. Just like his tightrope-unicycling monkey.

"Yes. I've tried everything to get him to talk to me, to open up about what happened to him in Krausberg. Every time I try and open up those memories, he shuts them down and shuts me out. Eventually, I realised I wasn't asking because of Bucky; I was asking because of me. I wanted to help. I _needed_ to help. To feel useful. Relevant. But what Bucky needs is time to process what's happened and talk about it only when he's ready. And if that's never… well, then it's never. I can't be there for those memories, but I can be there for everything else. If that's the best I'm gonna get, then I've gotta take it."

"He's very lucky, to have such an understanding friend."

"And Michael is lucky to have an understanding sister."

She smiled, a real smile full of warmth that might've melted him on the spot, had he not already been sitting down. "I can drink to that." She wrapped her slender fingers around her glass and lifted it in toast. "To our brothers."

"Our brothers," he said, clinking his glass gently against hers. "And to long lives filled with happiness for them both."

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: Some people have asked when we'll be catching up with Wells. The answer is, next chapter. Fortunately for him, northern Italy is pretty quiet… [ominous pause] for the moment. For those of you looking for a Bucky/Michael heart-to-heart, you have that to look forward to next chapter as well. I'm having so much fun writing Michael, and I hope you enjoy reading about him too._

 _And I almost forgot_ _—Happy 100th Chapter Birthday to my story! With this chapter, the story passes my previous 590K-word record, to officially become the longest stand-alone fanfic I_ _'ve ever written, and I'm immensely proud that half-a-million words into my rambling, people are still reading and enjoying the updates. I know that the past thirty chapters have been very different in tone from the early days with the 107th. I do feel somewhat restricted in my portrayal of the Commandos, to try and keep them in-keeping with what we know of them from a canon POV, and I know I'm not the only one who misses the crazy, often BS-filled antics of the 107th. In another twenty or so chapters, the tone will change again. Bucky's gone through some pretty dark times of late, but it won't always be like this. Summer will bring Operation Overlord, and some big changes to the European Front, as well as to Our Heroes and to some old faces you probably thought you'd never see again. A massive thank you to everyone who's still reading, and I hope to keep you entertained for another half a million words._


	101. Through a Glass, Darkly

We Were Soldiers

 _101\. Through a Glass, Darkly_

He waited behind the row of pruned privet hedges until first one car, and another soon after, left the house. The lights in the house remained on, so he made his move. Stepped out from behind the hedges and onto the gravel driveway. Absentmindedly patted the package contained within the inside pocket of his jacket. Crept towards the front door, conscious that, tomorrow, his whereabouts would be questioned. Nobody could know that he had come here.

At the front door, Bucky straightened from his stealthy crouch and rang the bell. It hadn't been difficult to find Carter's home address. Dernier wasn't the only one who could be sneaky when he wanted.

The door opened, and he squinted in the wave of light that washed over him. The voice of Michael Carter was full of surprise.

"Sergeant Barnes? If you're looking for Captain Rogers, he and Peggy left about ten minutes ago."

"Actually, I came to speak to you."

"Me? What for?"

He shifted from foot to foot, that damn light still blinding him. "Mind if I come in?"

"No, of course not. Forgive my rusty manners. Come on in."

He stepped into the house. It was a _nice_ house. Much nicer than the one he'd grown up in. All high-ceilings and wainscot panelling… and was that a chandelier, above the staircase?

"What can I do for you, Sergeant?"

"Please, call me Bucky," he replied. No sense standing on ceremony at a time like this. "And I was actually hoping to do something for you."

He reached into his pocket and brought out the small bottle of Scotch he'd been carefully cradling since purchasing it earlier that afternoon. Lizzie would've given him a discount on the price, but he didn't want her telling Steve and the others that he was back on the Scotch again. It would only worry them. So, he'd gone somewhere else to buy it. Somewhere that charged more because it was in a swankier area of London.

"I got this for you. Kind of a welcome home gift. Though I feel obliged to tell you that this definitely isn't on the list of approved food and drinks for those medically recovering from an ordeal like yours, so you consume it at your own peril."

"It's about time there was a little peril in this place. Come into the drawing room and you can help me open it."

He followed his host through a corridor and into a very nice room with comfortable chairs within easy reach of a towering bookshelf. Doubtful _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ would be found amongst the hefty tomes.

"Y'know," he said, as Michael opened a hidden drinks cabinet behind a seemingly plain wooden wall panel, "when I was a kid, I always wondered why it was called a 'drawing' room when no actual drawing went on inside it."

"When I was a child, I used to believe that my home's secret hiding places existed because the house once belonged to smugglers." He tapped the floorboards with his foot and offered a wistful smile. "I still haven't managed to find all the secret corridors they used to smuggle things in and out, and I refuse to give up believing that they exist."

Michael poured two small measures of whisky into two tumblers, and handed one over.

"To your health," Bucky offered.

The recovering Captain wrinkled his nose. "One should never toast something so poor. Here's a better one: to childhood, and all its hidden secrets."

The first sip of Scotch burned his throat, as it always had. The second went down smoother.

"Did you give Steve _the talk_?" he asked. It seemed like a safe starting point.

"An abridged version. More of an overview, really. See, sometime between me being taken prisoner and me being rescued, my sister became the physical embodiment of Sekhmet. That's the lion-headed ancient Egyptian goddess of war, by the way, in case you were wondering. Plus, given my current physical condition, I'm hardly in a position to make good on any threats against your medically enhanced best friend. Peggy knows how to take care of herself."

"Better than Steve does, at least," Bucky agreed. "I still have to help him with his necktie, you know."

"The burdens of friendship."

They sipped their whisky in silence for a moment.

"So," said Michael. "Thus far, I've had enquiries about my physical and emotional health from my sister, my parents, more aunts, uncles and cousins than I knew I even had, the family physician, his precocious young daughter, what friends I have left who are not overseas, several of my mother's acquaintances, three Generals from the War Office, Captain Rogers, and Patrick, the postman. Aren't you going to ask me how I'm settling back in? That seems to be a favourite."

Bucky shook his head and tapped his glass for a top-up. "I figure you've had enough of that question. When you've been through what you've been through, everybody's quick to tell you that you can talk to them. Confide in them. Tell them about what happened. What they don't tell you is, you don't _have_ to talk about it, if you don't want to. That it's okay to keep it all to yourself."

"You sound like you speak from experience," Michael pointed out. "Captain Rogers told me that his team was captured by HYDRA. I take it you were one of those he freed?"

"That's right."

"And you don't walk to talk about your experience?"

"I'd rather not."

Michael sank down into one of the chairs. It dwarfed his emaciated frame, driving home just how long he'd suffered from deprivation. "Why not?"

The question floored him. Nobody had ever asked him that before. They just assumed that what he'd been through was hard to talk about. Which it was. But they never asked _why_.

"Well… because it wasn't the same for me as the other guys. While they were toiling in the factory, I developed pneumonia, and got hauled off for medical experimentation. It was basically torture."

"I see." Michael gestured to the other chair, and Bucky reluctantly sat. He'd only seconds ago asked for a top-up, and could hardly just swig the whisky and run now. "Are you ashamed of what they did to you?"

"What? No. I mean, I'm not thrilled I got captured and taken prisoner, but I was just unlucky that I fell sick."

"So, what? You're afraid that your friends will think you weak? That they'll consider you broken? That they'll question what you may have divulged to your enemies to make the torture stop?"

Jeez, was the guy a mind-reader, or just real lucky with his guesses? "All of the above, I suppose." Though _all of the above_ was grossly over-simplifying the situation. "It's just… they wouldn't understand what I went through."

"Do _you_ understand it?"

He shook his head. Where the hell were these questions coming from? He oughta just tell Michael that he didn't wanna talk about it, down the last of his drink, and head back to the city. The guy was clearly far too insightful for his own good.

"I dunno," he said instead. "I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. Until _I_ understand and accept what happened to me, how can anyone else?"

"Maybe it's easier to not be understood," Michael mused. "To just accept that bad things happened because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe it's easier to box it off forever and let people throw their questions against a brick wall. After all, if nobody understands, and nobody knows the part of your life you're trying to keep hidden, then you can keep it safe. And if you should slip, and say or do something you don't really mean… well, they just have to accept it, don't they, because it came from that unknowing place."

"I never really thought about it like that before." But he probably should have. "Maybe you're right."

"Of course I'm right. I'm always right. Just ask Peggy." With a maniacal grin, Michael poured another measure of whisky into each glass. The bottle was already half empty! Maybe he should'a brought a smaller bottle… "I, on the other hand, am going to write a book about my experiences in the HYDRA _stalag_."

He damn near spit his mouthful of whisky back into his glass. Instead, he tried to swallow it, and it ended up going down the wrong pipe, burning his nose. After he'd finished choking, he managed to gasp, "What happened to all that bullshit about boxing it off and never talking about it?"

"Your bullshit. Not mine. See, it would be so easy to shut everything out. To close myself off and push away those I love. Something happened to me; but it didn't happen to me alone. I lost friends. A lot of friends. I saw a lot of good men—men who'd committed no crime other than being Jewish—worked to death in that place. The world deserves, one day, to know their stories. All of them. The reason I don't talk about what happened is because each time you tell a story, it changes. A word here, a memory there. Accidental lies creep in. The audience projects its own wishes onto the story. They want it to be bigger. Darker. The ending more heroic.

"But I don't want that. I want to write the truth about the men who lived and died out there. So, I keep it all alive up here. I keep it _real_." He tapped his temple with his fingers. "And one day, when the book's been written and I'm ready to tell the story, my family and friends can read it along with everyone else. Because it won't be my story, it will be theirs: the men who never came home."

Michael's selflessness only deepened Bucky's shame. He was selfish, because he didn't want to tell those stories, ever. The friends he'd lost over the past year, and the friends he might yet lose in the coming battles… there was a place for them, inside his mind. In his mind, he could imagine Carrot going home and marrying Samantha, and the four carrot-topped kids they'd have. He could picture Wells living with a family who loved him unconditionally. He could hope that Hodge would be the one to put a bullet in Hitler's skull, and get that statue in his honour to make his ol' mom proud. In his mind, Gusty and Nurse Klein could live the rest of their lives in a world where war was a thing of the past.

 _Those_ were the stories he wanted to tell himself. They weren't real, but they were better than real, because they were happy, and they would live for as long as he lived. Nobody would ever get sick, in his stories. Nobody would ever die. They would live young and eternal, until he drew his last breath and took them with him into what lay beyond.

"Would you like to see what I've written so far?"

He blinked away the stories in his eyes at Michael's suggestion. He really didn't wanna read what the guy had written. Who knew what horrors it might contain? What dark feelings it might evoke? What slumbering memories might stir within? But he just didn't feel comfortable saying no.

"Yeah, sure."

Michael pulled several books from the shelf behind him, then removed a bunch of rolled-up papers that had been hidden from view. When Bucky unrolled them, he found just a single line on the first page.

"' _It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.'_ Y'know this is technically plagiarism, right?"

The man merely laughed. "All the best stories start with something stolen. A few words; some precious heirloom; a heart. Though, truth be told, I'm thinking of cutting it to merely, _It was the worst of times._ "

"Why don't you subvert it? Something like, _It was the worst of times, they were the best of men._ "

"Well, I like it, though I think the estate of Mr. Dickens may still take exception."

"Is this the only line you have so far?"

"I'm afraid so. You see, every time I sit down to write another line, somebody interrupts me. It's taken me this long to get the rest of the family out of the house for a few hours."

And here he'd thought all Englishmen were unfailingly polite, like Monty! "Alright, I can take a subtle hint, I'll be going."

"No need for that. Sorry if I came off rude; living in squalor with fifty other men, most of whom have only a very limited command of the English language, you quickly learn to be honest… sometimes a little brutally so. Look, it's getting late, and it sounds like the wind's picking up out there. Not very pleasant conditions for a man in your tipsy condition to be walking back to London in. We have a guest room I can make up for you, if you want to leave in the morning."

Bucky downed the last of his whisky and shook his head. "Thanks, but I'd rather not be here when Steve gets back from his date. In fact, I'd rather that he… or your sister… didn't know I was here at all. Y'know, since I've spent so much time not-talking about my experiences with Steve, he might be a little sore if he knew I was also not-talking about it with his date's brother."

"Then how about we finish this bottle of whisky, hide you in one of the secret corridors that I'm certain exists, and wait until Peggy goes to bed. Then we can sneak you out the kitchen window and you can make a stealthy escape back to the city. It will be like a covert mission, of sorts."

"I think you've already had too much of that whisky. Save the rest for the next time you get the chance to write your book. Besides, I need to be back at my room before Steve gets there, because if he comes knockin' on my door to tell me all about the foot-in-mouth moments he's gone through over the past couple of hours, and I'm not there, he'll probably assume the worst: that the moment he took his eye off me, I ran off to drink copious amounts of whisky."

"I'd hardly call it copious amounts." Michael held the two-thirds-empty bottle up and shook it so that the whisky sloshed around inside. "It's a rather small bottle. Still, I see your point. Moral support for your best friend, and all that." He looked blearily around the room. "Would you mind awfully if I didn't get up to see you out? The chair seems to have me in some sort of devilishly cunning full-body lock that I don't think I can break out of."

"Don't sweat it, I don't mind seeing myself out." Besides, he recognised that glazed look in Michael's eyes. He'd seen it in the mirror a few times. In a few moments, Michael would be fast asleep. Whisky did that to a man. It used to do it to Bucky. Now, it just made him feel a little fuzzy around the edges, and it took a lot more than a small bottle to put him out for the night.

"Thanks for the drink, and the company," Michael offered.

"No problem. Thanks for the perspective. Oh, and if anybody asks where you got that bottle from…"

Michael tapped his nose. "Secret smuggler stash."

"Right. G'night."

Outside, the wind _had_ picked up. It tried to pull the front door from Bucky's grasp, and made him battle it to close it again. How odd it was, that Michael was so easy to talk to, whilst his sister made every conversation feel like a battle. In many ways, they were very alike, and in other ways, so very different. He just hoped Steve was having a good time. And that he wasn't puttin' his foot in his mouth too badly.

Turning his coat collar up against the rising wind, he set off on the road back to the city.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Have you finished with the onion? Danny? Are you even listening to me? _Danny!_ "

At Rosa's shout, Danny jumped almost out of his skin, and very nearly sliced his fingers with the knife he held in his hand. Rosa made a 'tsk' of annoyance.

"Sorry, Rosa. What were you saying?"

"That I need to put the onion in the pan. Surely you have finished cutting it, have you not? Or are you trying to win an award for the most time taken to peel and dice an onion?"

" _Mi dispiace,_ " he offered, because she was always quicker to forgive him when he apologised in Italian. "I guess I wasn't paying attention."

" _I guess_ ," she snorted, though there was no malice in her words. She subjected him to the same cranky motherliness that she inflicted on Adalina and Paolo. "Your mind has been wandering these past few days. Not to Treviso, I hope?"

Matteo had gone to Treviso, some twenty miles north of Venice, to secure new business for his forge and for Rosa's cheeses. Because he had family there, he'd taken Adalina and Paolo to visit with them. Danny had offered to take care of the goats so that Rosa could join them, but she insisted she couldn't leave her precious livestock, not even if she had a dozen of the finest goatherds looking after them. They would miss her too much, she said. It would sour their milk and ruin their cheese. He didn't know whether that really was the case, or whether Rosa was just really good at bullshitting.

"Just thinking about the weather," he said truthfully.

"Always the weather! I told you, winter will be back."

Yes, she'd told him. Several times. A week ago, the weather had warmed. The temperature had risen to five degrees, and it felt unseasonally warm after so much snow. Now, the icicles that had first clung and then grown from the overhangs of the house were _drip drip dripping_ their life's water away. Soon, there would be no icicles at all.

Only, that was not what Rosa claimed. She said that as January turned to February, the weather would freeze again, and bring more snow. _Little Winter_ , the locals called it, because it had happened every year for as long as any of them could remember. Two weeks' worth of fresh snow would fall, once more covering the land in white and making travel difficult. That was why Matteo had waited so long to visit Treviso. It was easier to travel between _Big Winter_ and _Little Winter_ , so long as they could make it back in time.

He couldn't help feeling restless. Here, in Castello Lavazzo, he was isolated from the world. From the war. He didn't know who was winning, or whether the next people to come marching into town would be enemy or Allied soldiers. And to make matters worse, Adalina was making his occasional social visits to the town… rather awkward.

They were supposed to be cousins. Distant cousins, but still family. But the way she looked at him, and laughed at his jokes, and gave him secret smiles that were blatantly obvious to anyone watching her, it was clear she did not consider him _just a cousin_. And whilst it was true that people did marry their cousins in some parts of the world—particularly those Deeper, Souther, parts of the of the world—it wasn't helping Danny's ruse one bit to have such a beautiful young cousin showing romantic interest in him.

That was one of the reasons she'd gone to Treviso with her father and brother. Rosa had all but shoo'd her out of the house. Maybe she hoped that in Treviso, Adalina would find some handsome young man to catch her eye. Danny doubted it would work. Adalina was… unfortunately… not shallow like that.

"Here, I have something for you. Perhaps this will take your mind off _weather_."

She opened one of the kitchen drawers and pulled out a small book. When he saw the gold foil cross symbol beveled into the cover, he wanted to toss it onto the fire. But that would've been very rude, so he didn't.

"Uh, thanks, Rosa. Y'know, I can't remember if I ever told you this, but I'm not _particularly_ religious…"

"You mentioned it." She put down her stirring spoon and turned to face him. "Every night you write, write, write. And every morning, you have nothing to show for it. Maybe you should try reading, instead."

He turned to a random page, and the words jumped out immediately, clear as day. "This is in English."

"Yes, it is in English. Do you think I would give you a book in Italian? You are learning to speak much better, but your reading… I do not think you could read a child's book, much less the book of the Almighty."

He thumbed through the pages, some of the titles familiar, others completely alien to his memory. "Why do you have an English bible?"

"It was a gift, from my English friend's family, when I visited her. I brought it back with me, and put it away when the children were born and I was worried it might fall into young hands and be ruined." A smile ghosted across her lips. "Yesterday, I thought to look through some of my old childhood memories, and I came across this. I had forgotten all about it. Now, I think you should read it."

"Yeah, I'll do that." When Hell froze over.

Rosa had other ideas. She made a little _Well? Get on with it!_ gesture at him. "You can read a passage for me. When I was in England, my friend and I went to a grand cathedral. It is a long time since I have heard these words spoken in English… and never in American English."

"Y'know, I think the _original_ English-English would sound _much_ bett—"

She thwacked his leg with her stirring spoon, leaving a watery mark on the fabric and causing him to yelp more from surprise than pain.

"Since you are no good at cutting vegetables today, I will cut and you will read." The spoon came up in warning, aimed just like a pistol. "And do not denigrate my childhood memories again!"

"Alright, fine, fine." He turned to a random page and began to read.

" _If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing._

" _Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things._

" _Love never ends. As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known._

" _So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love."_

"I wonder what all that's supposed to mean," he mused.

"Is it not obvious? The first verse tells us that without love, words are meaningless. Acts of kindness are empty. Knowledge and faith are without purpose. The second verse tells us that love is pure, and with it, nothing is impossible. And then, when knowledge and faith and words are gone, there will be only love, because love is perfect, and from it comes hope and faith. Through it, we will see the world clearly."

From where he was standing, it sounded mostly like bullshit. What kinda God said all that about love, and then put a caveat on who it could be applied to? If love was so pure, why were some people unable to feel it? Clearly his own parents had never loved him one bit. If love rejoiced at the truth, why did he have to hide his own feelings deep within himself, and burn the letters he wrote every night? Why let people love, and then tell them, _actually, you can_ _'t love that person_. It just wasn't right.

He could see only two possibilities. The first, and probably most likely, was that God was a cruel, hypocrite of an Almighty father. The second was that God just wanted people to love each other—and, of course, Him—but that the people listening and penning the words had got it all wrong and put their own spin on it. In which case, religion was just a really big conspiracy carried out in the name of a God who was either too powerless or too complacent to stop it.

Sometimes he felt flipping God the Vs… but he didn't, because Rosa would actually kill him.

He flipped a few pages ahead, and said, "Hey, I like this chapter better. They're stoning some heretics to death. Guess they didn't read _Corinthians_."

"You should not be so irreverent, Danny. One day, you may need to ask the Almighty Father for help."

"I can't even trust my _own_ father to give me help. Why on Earth would I ask the Father with a capital-F?"

"Because he brings us miracles." _Yeah, tell that to millions of Jews_. "Look around you. At everything we are, and everything we have, and the Earth we live on. How do you think this all came to be?"

"We have this thing called 'science' now."

"Bah, I give up. You are hopeless!"

"Ah, but according to the bible, if you have love, you must have hope—even for me! Because love bears all things, right? So if you're admitting that you have no hope for me, you're also admitting that you have no love."

He was quite pleased with that particular line of reasoning, but Rosa looked like she wanted to hit him with the spoon again, so he filled the kettle with water from a clean water bucket and put it on the stove. A cup of reconciliatory tea would see her right.

Whilst waiting for the kettle to boil, he thumbed back to the passage he'd read. Maybe it had one thing right, if nothing else. _For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face. Now I know in part; then shall I know fully, even as I have been fully known._

It was just like his Oz. At some point, between the innocence of childhood and the worldliness of adulthood, the view had grown dimmer, as if everything was seen through a dark-coloured glass. The magic of Oz had faded from technicolour to monochrome, until he'd found what he hoped and feared might be love. The technicolour had returned. That darkly-coloured glass had been lifted. Face to face with his own reflection, he thought he knew himself better now than he ever had, even though he didn't always _understand_ himself.

Perhaps that was the secret children held. That they saw the world in technicolour. That for them, there was no smoky glass screen to distort their view of the world. And if this bible stuff was right, then didn't that essentially mean that finding and having love was like claiming back a little piece of your childhood? Seeing through eyes that were untainted by the mores of adulthood?

Maybe love had to be difficult, to be worth anything. Maybe it had to be hard to endure, to prove that it was worth enduring. Perhaps it had to be tested, to show that it was strong enough to bear all. Of course, that would be little comfort if he got sent home with a Blue discharge and was then considered inherently unemployable. He wouldn't do well, living on the streets. He liked his comforts too much. Showering. Listening to the radio. Regular meals.

"…did you even hear a word I just said?"

He looked up from the little book, into Rosa's exasperated face.

"I swear, if you were thinking of the weather again—"

"No, I wasn't, I promise. I was just thinking about this passage I read out to you. I mean, I guess it's kinda okay. Definitely one of the better parts of the bible. Not like those sections that deal with the keeping of slaves. I am entirely against slavery. Er, what were you saying?"

"That I think my daughter has fallen in love with you."

"Oh." Well. That cat was out of the bag. Though it was hardly a great secret, the way she smiled at him all the time and made any excuse to touch his hand or his arm or any other part of his body she thought she could innocently get away with. "I was hoping it was just… y'know… a crush."

"Crush? I do not know this word. And the kettle is boiling over."

"Dammit." He grabbed a towel and hauled the bubbling kettle off the stove, letting it cool in the sink for a moment. Steam billowed up and tried to melt his face, but he nimbly stepped back to avoid it. "Crush. It's a type of infatuation. Usually young girls see an attractive guy and have a crush on him. Or young guys see an attractive dame and have a crush on her. Usually, the object of the crush is in some way unattainable."

"Ahh. I do not think Adalina has a crush. She genuinely cares about you. Being with you makes her happy. I would prefer that if you're going to break her heart, you do it sooner, rather than later."

That was Rosa all over; practical to the bone. Not, _Don_ _'t break my daughter's heart_ , but _If you have to break it, do it fast and soon_. She was the most formidable woman he'd ever met.

"C'mon, Rosa, I don't wanna hurt her feelings. She's a good kid."

"Do you have feelings of love for her?"

Jeez, talk about a curve-ball. Could a guy even answer that question without pissing off the mother of the girl in question? Normally, he'd say no, but this was Rosa, and she wasn't like any other mom he'd ever met. And if he lied to her, she'd know it. She could read minds. It was a super-power, or something.

"I dunno, Rosa. Right now, she's just a kid, and she doesn't know what she wants. Not really. I do care about her. I care about her happiness, and her wellbeing, and there are many things about her that I love. For example, she never hit me with a spoon. But I know that the young woman she is today won't be the young woman she is in five years' time. And ten years from now, she'll be a completely different woman, because dames mature _so much_ faster than guys. I see so much in her that I admire, and so many strengths that she's only just beginning to explore. I think I could love the woman she may one day become, but I don't know whether loving me will help her to become that women, or whether I'll prevent her from growing into it."

"Would you not prefer her to mould herself into your ideal of a perfect woman? Would you not prefer to make her into your image?"

"Hell no. Do you know why I'm an accountant, and not, say, an architect or an engineer? It's because I should never, ever be allowed to design things. Or create things. I can't even handle modeling clay. Besides, perfection? Sounds boring. Where's the excitement in that?"

"If only all men thought such things! Sadly, too many men want their women to be _this_ or _that_. Too few will accept a woman for who she is. I have a feeling that you will find happiness one day, Danny Wells. Whether with Adalina or another… the who is not as important as the happiness."

"You're subtly referencing _Corinthians_ there, aren't you?"

"Yes." She gave the pan of whatever she was cooking a quick stir before turning back to him. "Also, Matteo has a friend in Treviso, who has a friend who has a cousin who does papers. I have asked him to procure you some."

"What do you mean, _does papers_?"

He knew what she meant, but it was hard to believe that law-abiding Rosa would sanction such lawlessness.

"Forging, of course. Matteo will get you French papers, proving that you are a relative of his, and a legal French resident. With your papers, you will be free. You can travel openly, or you can stay here. The choice is yours… but you must make it _after_ Little Winter."

His mind reeled. _Papers_? They weren't easy to come by, and they didn't come cheap. As well, Matteo was taking a big risk, going straight to the source and not through an intermediary. If something went wrong, he'd be facing a lifetime sentence in a Nazi work-camp, and it wouldn't be a particularly _long_ lifetime.

"Rosa, how can I possibly thank you?" he asked.

"Work hard to recover your shoulder, feed the goats every day, and chop vegetables in a timely fashion. Plus, when the time comes to make the choice, to stay or to go, you must do what you feel is right. The best way to live, is to live honestly. It is the most any of us can do."

 _Live honestly._ He wasn't sure he even knew what that meant anymore. But maybe Rosa was right about one thing… maybe he was writing too much. He hefted the small book, then slipped it into his pocket. Tonight, he'd see whether the words could offer any further nuggets of wisdom. Some other ways of seeing through the dark glass.


	102. Broken

We Were Soldiers

 _102\. Broken_

Bucky had never had a fried breakfast containing hotdog sausages before, but with the Brits rationing everybody and everything, all establishments that housed or catered for American troops were supplied by the US Army's kitchens, so he guessed they'd all be getting used to eating odd food combinations. At least the _Strand_ _'s_ cooks hadn't actually tried to _fry_ the hotdog sausages; they were just dumped unceremoniously on the edge of the plate, as if included as an after-thought. Probably English snobbery.

Halfway through his plate of delicious hot food, a familiar figure sauntered into the dining room with a spring in his step. Bucky rolled his eyes. Steve hadn't come to speak to him last night about his date, but he'd heard his friend return to his room about one in the morning… in fact, with Steve whistling some jaunty tune that Bucky didn't recognise, probably everybody in the hotel had heard him return to his room.

"Morning, sunshine," he said, as Steve took the opposite seat at the table. "I take it your date went well?"

"I didn't put my foot in my mouth even once," Steve grinned. "I would've told you about it sooner, but we got back later than intended, and I didn't wanna wake you."

"Wake me? Pal, you just about woke the whole hotel. What was that tune you were whistling?"

Steve's cheeks pinked a little. "Oh, I don't even remember."

"Well, I hope from your perky mood, that means you at least got in a goodnight kiss."

"Nope."

"Sometimes I despair over you."

His best friend offered a reproachful look. "C'mon, Buck, it's not always about the action."

"It's _always_ about the action."

Before Steve could offer another objection, Morita dashed into the dining room and made a beeline for their table. "Cap, Sarge, we just got a message from HQ. Phillips wants us to report for duty ASAP: he's got some action for us."

Bucky shovelled half a fried tomato into his mouth and grabbed a slice of toast for the road. "See? It's always about the action."

An hour later, the Commandos—plus Agent Carter and Howard Stark—had assembled in Phillips' office, keen to get their next mission underway. Steve had even managed to wipe the goofy, in-love smile off his face. It would probably be back as soon as Carter said two words.

"Men," Phillips began, "we've finally gotten a strong lead on one of the HYDRA bases Captain Rogers found marked on Schmidt's map in Krausberg. Now that we know exactly where it is and what it's being used for, I think it's time we put it permanently out of operation. I'm not going to bother telling you that this will be a dangerous mission. They're all dangerous missions; that's why you're here. This time, you'll be heading into Luxembourg. Agent Carter, please educate the men about Luxembourg."

Carter stepped forward and pinned a map of the area onto a corkboard beside Phillips' desk. "Luxembourg is a landlocked country occupying an area of approximately one thousand square miles. Bordered by France, Belgium and Germany, the country is currently occupied by Nazi forces. Because it has no coast, a naval incursion into the country is out of the question. This time, you'll have no choice but to parachute in."

"Just what I wanted to hear," Dugan said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Me too," said Monty. And he _really_ meant it.

"The facility," Carter continued, "is located about a mile south-west of a town called Kayl, within a commune of the same name. We do have one ace up our sleeve; we have operatives lying low within the French town of Ottange, barely a mile from the France-Luxembourg border, and they will secure you two cars, which you can use to travel by night to the HYDRA facility. Because the facility isn't located too near to any civilian populations, and it's staffed only by HYDRA personnel, it should be a fairly straightforward mission."

"Way to jinx it," said Morita.

Steve stepped forward to gesture at the circle that had been indicated on his map. "What does this facility do?"

"It's a refinery," Stark spoke up. "Refining what, we're not sure, but chatter across the comms network suggests it's an important part of Schmidt's plans. I've already procured a healthy amount of plastic explosive for Mr. Dernier to play with once you get there."

"Très bon!"

"Wouldn't it be great if we could blow this place up with Schmidt inside?" asked Jones.

It would definitely be a coup for the war effort, if their next mission resulted in Schmidt's death, but Bucky was hoping for something more personal for Schmidt and his flying monkey, Zola. He wanted to see them suffer before they died. A quick death was far too good for them, after what they'd done to him.

"Gentlemen," said Phillips, "you fly at five o'clock this evening"— _I hate rush-hour flying_ , Morita whispered to Falsworth—"and will arrive at your drop zone roughly two hours later. You'll be extracted from a pre-determined rendezvous point at seventeen-hundred hours tomorrow, giving you twenty-four hours to meet your contacts in Ottange, cross over into Luxembourg, blow up the refinery, and make it to your pick-up zone. Good luck, and Godspeed."

Carter stepped towards the group. "Captain, Major, I have intelligence to pass on to you in preparation for the mission."

"Mr. Dernier, Private Jones," said Stark, "if you'd like to accompany me down to my lab, I'll get you kitted out with all the explosives you'll need, plus some upgrades to the spy kit. I call it, Spy Kit Mk. II. Barnes, you might wanna come as well; I have some new flavours of high-energy ration bars for you and Captain Rogers to try out."

"Guess that leaves Morita and me to head down to the quartermaster and requisition some ammo and equipment," said Dugan. He gave one corner of his moustache a twirl. "My favourite part of any mission."

"You should all meet in the _Strand_ lobby for two o'clock this afternoon," Carter added. "I've arranged transport to the airfield."

The group split up to perform their various tasks, but not before Steve managed another goofy, calf-eyed smile at Carter. Bucky merely shook his head. Good help his lovestruck friend.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The flight over France was more turbulent than the one over Norway. Every time the plane dipped, Bucky's stomach lurched horribly. Dernier had already been sick several times, and other than Monty, nobody looked particularly happy about being in the air.

"At least they're only short flights," said Steve. He gingerly patted Dernier on the back as the Frenchman closed his eyes at another aerial dip. "When I flew from America to Sicily, it was _hours_."

Denier vomited into a bucket again. When he'd finished, he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief donated by Monty and said, "From now, I travel only by car."

"Will you be okay, Jacques?" Steve asked. "I'd ask you to sit it out, but I kinda need you on this one."

"Oui, oui, I will be fine when on solid ground."

The co-pilot shouted back from the cockpit, "Captain, we'll be at the drop point in one minute."

"Alright everyone," said Steve, "this won't be like Norway. We're jumping straight into the heart of enemy territory. When you land, hide your chutes and make immediately for Ottange. Don't wait around. Now, let's synchronise our watches."

Bucky pulled his sleeve back to reveal the face of the watch his dad had given him before he headed off to _Last Stop_. The hands read _five-thirty-five_ ; the time they'd roughly been over the English channel. That couldn't be right.

He tapped the face, in case the hands had lodged, but nothing happened. As a mechanical watch, it wound itself to the movement of his body, but he tried the manual wind-up anyway… and still the second-hand didn't move.

"We gotta turn back," he said.

The rest of the group looked at him as if he was mad. "What's wrong?" Steve asked immediately.

"My watch has stopped working."

"I'm sure we got enough watches between us," said Dugan.

"You don't understand: this is the watch my dad gave me before I shipped out. The same watch he wore during the Great War. This thing has been ticking for nearly thirty years. The fact that it's stopped now is a really bad omen." It wasn't that he was particularly superstitious, but he did believe things happened for a reason. The watch breaking now was no coincidence; it did not bode well for the mission.

"C'mon, Barnes, do you wanna lose your man-badge forever?"

"Hey, maybe Barnes is right," said Morita. Bucky silently thanked him for the support. "This morning, as I was getting dressed, I popped a button on my shirt. Probably a bad omen, too."

"Yeah," Jones added. "And as I was boarding the plane, I broke a nail."

"The hatred that I have for you all cannot be defined by mere words," he told them. "But sure, you all go ahead and synchronise your watches. I'll just exist forever in five-thirty-five. Send me a postcard from the future, and don't blame me when the mission goes to hell."

"You can jump right ahead of me if you like, Sergeant Barnes," said Monty. "My watch keeps the time well enough for the both of us. Fear not; I shan't let you get lost in the past."

"Thank you, Major. At least one of my teammates is showing a little concern for my welfare."

"We'll get your watch fixed as soon as we get back to London," Steve assured him. "Your dad'll never know there was ever a problem with it."

"Probably just got overloaded with feminine emotion," sniggered Dugan. "Be sure to stick close to Monty if you start feeling faint, Barnes."

God, he wished the 107th were there with him right now. Wells and Davies and Gusty would've been full of ideas to wipe the smirk off Dugan's face. Ideas like replacing the sugar cubes he used in his morning coffee with cubes of salt. Or dying his bowler hat bright pink. Hmm. Perhaps when he got back to London, he'd have words with Stark.

"Alright, it's time," Steve shouted above the hum of the engines. "I'll see you all ground-side."

He punched the cargo ramp button—not literally, because that would've broke it—and was the first to jump into the murky darkness. Typical Steve. He didn't stop to listen to whether AA guns were targetting the plane… probably thought that by jumping first, he'd be taking any potential fire away from the rest of the team.

Dernier went next. Other than Steve and Monty, Bucky had never seen a guy so eager to jump out of a plane. Maybe Dernier's stomach was happier when he was free-falling. It certainly couldn't get any worse than it already was.

After Jones and Morita leapt in turn, it was Dugan next in line. Monty still insisted that at least himself and one other person remained to help 'encourage' Dugan out of the plane, and Bucky was more than happy to be that person. Hearing Dugan's _"Waaaaaahhh!"_ of terror as he was pushed from the craft was happy payback for all the mockery.

"You're up next, Sergeant," said Monty.

Bucky pulled his goggles down over his eyes and took the leap out of the plane. Once, a lifetime ago, he'd worried about the jump. The chute deployment. The landing. Since then, he'd come to realise that the worry was worse than the jump itself. He trusted that his chute would deploy and that he'd land safely on the ground. If something was gonna go wrong, it would've gone wrong during his first jump. No, this mission would have different setbacks. Probably when they were least expected.

He fell through the air until and counted in his head. When he reached the count Monty had given him, he pulled the cord and was jerked unpleasantly as the chute caught the wind and slowed his rapid descent. In the darkness, he could just about make out the outlines of two of the other parachutes, floating slowly down like expansive ghosts. It begged the question… why didn't somebody design black parachutes, for use at night? White ones were essentially giant targets in the night sky.

He filed the question away for later discussion as the ground approached. This time, there was no deep snow drift to swallow him whole, just a good ol' boring French field. It seemed like a lifetime since he'd first set foot on French soil. Hard to believe it was less than a year ago. Hard to believe he was the same James Buchanan Barnes, the same stupid kid who'd stood in line outside the recruitment office and wished for glory and adventure. Less than a year since Wells had bullshitted him about all the inoculations they'd have to receive, and Gusty had earned his nickname. They'd come to Europe to fight the good fight… and some of them would never leave it.

His landing went as smooth as his jump and his fall. As soon as he'd found his ground-legs again, he detached himself from his parachute and folded the thing up as small as he could get it, before shoving it into the first deep ditch he came across. Hopefully it wouldn't be found until well after he and the team had returned back to London.

"That was some fine parachuting, Sergeant!" Monty's voice called out. Monty himself appeared from the cover of a sparse woods, sans parachute.

"Well, I had a good teacher."

Monty chuckled. "I have to agree with you there." He patted absently at his pockets. "Now, which way to Ottange?" he pondered aloud.

Bucky squinted at something in the distance, then pointed to the north. "That way. About two kilometres."

"How the devil do you know that? You haven't even consulted your compass."

"No, but there's a road over there, with a sign on it."

Falsworth peered in the direction of the road, then shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't see anything, but that seems as good a direction as any. Let's head that way and see if your sign makes itself any clearer to read."

As they walked, Monty continued patting at his pockets; not just those of his jacket, but also the front and back pockets of his pants. Finally, the temptation was too much.

"Any particular reason you're frisking yourself so thoroughly, Major?"

"Well, yes." In the darkness, Bucky couldn't _see_ the guy blush, but he could feel it, in the tone of voice. "I seem to be missing my compass."

"Ah."

"Not to worry; Captain Rogers still has that very fine compass you got him for Christmas. I heard something small and metallic drop in the plane, before I jumped. I thought one of the pilots may have dropped a coin. I do hope it was my compass; I might still recover it. If I lost it while falling… well, I'll never get it back. First your watch, now my compass. We are having a spot of bad luck, aren't we?"

It suddenly struck Bucky that he knew very little about Falsworth. He'd had chance to speak to Jones, Morita and Dernier about their families and their homes, and a summer spent traversing France with Dugan and the rest of the 69th had taught him all he wanted or needed to know about the bowler-hatted madman… but Falsworth had never seemed as approachable as the others. Or perhaps, less generally available. Time to rectify that.

"You got any long-term aspirations, Major?"

"You mean beyond stopping Hitler's tyranny before it can reach my homeland and overrun it and the rest of the world?" He scratched his chin in thought. "Well, when I was younger, I thought I might make a living as a professional cricketer. I'm quite handy with a bat and ball. But not a racquet. For some reason, I'm absolutely useless at tennis. And badminton."

"What happened to those plans?"

"War, mostly. You have to understand, we've been at this since '39. When the majority of your adult life has been spent with your country in a state of total war and under constant threat of invasion, you have to put aside your own plans. Countless millions of British and Commonwealth men answered the call to arms… I could hardly sit idly and play cricket while the world burned around me. What I'll do when the war's over… I haven't even thought that far ahead. How about you, Sergeant? What are your grand plans?"

"Live the American Dream, I guess. Before the war, I worked for a small printing firm, mostly doing copy-editing. Always figured I'd get married and start a family, maybe start up my own business if I could get enough money behind me."

Had that been his dream? Or had it been his mother's? She was always going on at him about settling down and finding a wife. He'd found more fun in getting to know women than settling down with any particular one. He's assumed that the wife and family stuff would just happen, and hadn't made any real effort to work at it. He'd been more interested in watching moving pictures, hanging around with Steve and his other friends, and sparring at his dad's boxing club. There hadn't been any need to rush the wife and kids stuff. When he was young, he imagined he'd have forever. Now, he knew how short forever could be.

"Well, hopefully what we're doing here today will mean you have a home to go back to," said Falsworth. "That those of us who still have homes and families can one day go back to th—I say, you were right, it _is_ a road-sign. How the devil did you see that from all the way back there?"

"I have good eyes." A smile tugged at his lips. "Why do you think I'm the sharpshooter?"

"I assumed it was because of your steady hand, but I guess good eyes are something of a prerequisite for the job as well." He straightened his jacket and set his gaze on the road. "Very well, on to Ottange we go! But perhaps we should walk beside the road, rather than on it. You never know who might be watching."

"Good idea." A moment later, he asked, "You got a girl, back home?"

"No, but my mother has about six lined up for me."

Judging from Monty's tone, his mother took a very _Bucky_ _'s mother_ approach to finding girls for her son. Maybe with Bucky away, she'd transfer the match-making to Charlie. Though, he _had_ just broken up with his long-term girlfriend, so maybe Mom wouldn't try to get involved too soon.

"Know what's strange?" he asked, as much to himself as to Monty. "My mom's the same; always telling me about this girl she met, or such-a-body's daughter. But for some reason, she never seems to have guys lined up for my sisters. I can't remember a single time she ever suggested setting Mary-Ann up on a date."

"Women are indeed mysterious creatures," Monty agreed. "And mothers even moreso."

A few minutes after passing the road sign for Ottange, they encountered another figure making his way along the road. Dernier seemed a little wobbly on his legs, but given the fact that he'd thrown up just about every meal he'd eaten in the past twenty-four hours, that was understandable.

"How's your stomach feeling?" Bucky asked him.

"Better" said Dernier.

"Jacques, I know you're as dedicated to the cause as any of us," said Monty, "but are you sure you want to keep putting yourself through this? England is an island; the only way off it is by sea or air, and your stomach seems to take exception to both."

"Is a small price to pay for my country's freedom. I will live."

"In that case, let's pick up the pace a little. We don't want to keep the rest of the team waiting."

They found the team on the outskirts of Ottange, waiting within the cover of a small wooded area. The town was quiet, with martial law and curfew in effect. Steve gestured them over, and quietly issued instructions. "We're looking for a house set back from the main road, with a dark blue door and a knocker in the form of a bull's head. We knock five times, and somebody will ask, 'Who's there?' Our counter is 'Just simple tradesmen from Panama looking for a place to rest for the night' and that's how we make contact with the SOE agents here."

"What if there's more than one house with a blue door and a bulls-head knocker?"

"Pe—I mean, Agent Carter assured us there's only one. Now, spread out in pairs and keep your heads down. Just because this place is quiet doesn't mean there aren't eyes watching the road."

Bucky paired up with Monty, and they took one of the small side-roads to explore. Dernier and Morita headed towards the main road, while Dugan and Jones took a path that wound its way towards a small woods.

"I understand you've performed missions here in France before," Monty said quietly as they searched for the elusive blue door.

"Yeah, back when the SSR was attempting to infiltrate HYDRA's communications network. But it was in the very south of France, and it was the middle of summer." He glanced around at the gloomy, dark town. "It was quite different to this." And he was still amazed that they'd managed to get the whole outfit across France without encountering major opposition. Carrying those tents for mile after mile, scurrying for cover every time a _stuka_ came by… and the tanks with their perilous bridge crossing! It had all seemed like a grand adventure, at the time. But that had been before their first real engagement.

"Say, there's a blue door," said Monty.

Bucky's gaze followed the direction in which he pointed. "Yeah, but it has a regular ol' door knocker. Not a bull-shaped one."

"Confound it. Let's keep looking."

In the end, victory went to Morita and Dernier. Morita's quiet call of, _"Hey guys, we found it!"_ drew in all the Commandos from their own searches.

"This looks like the right place," said Steve. "Good work, you two."

"Dumb luck, more like," Dugan scoffed.

"You're just sore that you owe me two bucks now." The grin plastered on Morita's face said he as already spending that money.

"Mission heads on, guys." Steve stepped forward and knocked five times on the blue door.

Bucky held his breath. So many things could go wrong on a mission like this, the worst of which was their contact being picked up by the Gestapo and replaced by German spies. It sounded like something out of a flick, but _Casablanca_ had nothing on the realities of war.

He heard the patter of footsteps on the other side of the door.

"What if nobody's home?" Jones whispered.

"They're in there," Bucky told him. "Can't you hear them?"

"Uh, no?"

"Who's there?" a voice called through the door.

"Just simple tradesmen from Panama looking for a place to rest for the night," Steve replied.

Bolts were slid back. Keys were turned in locks. A face peered around the door that opened by a few inches.

"Come in quickly," the man said. His French accent wasn't as strong as Dernier's, and his English sounded pretty fluent. "One can never be too careful about who may be watching."

One by one, they filed inside, following the dim light to a spacious sitting room. There was no sign that this was anything other than a normal French home… all their equipment must be pretty well hidden.

"Ah, our guests have finally arrived!" A dark-haired woman stepped into the room, her plain grey dress belying her naturally pretty face. "Welcome, welcome. I am Mariette; the un-mannered man at the door is my husband, Jean. Please, be seated, I will make us some tea."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Steve. "But we really can't be staying."

"Nonsense! My cousin, Clement, is out there right now, securing you two vehicles. Until he returns, you can be comfortable and civilised, can't you?"

"What Captain Rogers meant to say," Monty spoke up quickly, "is that we'd be delighted to share a spot of tea, if it's not too much trouble."

"Of course it's no trouble! I will go and prepare it now. Please makes yourselves at home."

"Hey, where's Jacques?" asked Jones.

The Frenchman appeared before a search could be mounted; he was deep in conversation with Jean, a rapid stream of French passing between the two. Bucky couldn't even catch a single word, despite his recent attempts to learn more of the language.

The conversation stopped, and Jean look around the Commandos. "I will go and help Mariette with the tea," he said.

"What was all that about?" Steve asked Dernier, when Jean was out of earshot.

"I ask about Marseilles," said Dernier. "I know it's… long shot? But I hope for news of home. So far, is quiet."

"Surely quiet is good," Bucky pointed out.

Dernier shrugged. "Maybe. We shall see, later. Now, there is mission, no?"

Bucky could only look at the Frenchman with envy. His home country was occupied, his family were in constant danger, and he still carried out missions with as much poise as his stomach would allow. In Dernier's place, with Mom and Dad and Mary-Ann, Janet and Charlie in danger, Bucky wasn't sure he would've been able to do the same. He just hoped that someday, soon, they'd be able to help Dernier—and all the French people—rid themselves of the Nazis for good. If the Allies could take back France, then victory was theirs.

But for now, there was a mission. And Bucky was still waiting for something to go horribly wrong.

* * *

 _Author's note: thanks guest reviewer for the song rec, I find it very apt. In fact, it should be renamed to Danny's Song, and made to replace the actual song titled Danny's Song by Kenny Loggins._


	103. The Watchmaker's Daughter

We Were Soldiers

 _103\. The Watchmaker_ _'s Daughter_

"Let me think." Monty rubbed his chin as he considered his options. "Oh, I know, we'll encounter a Nazi roadblock en route to our target."

"The explosives don't detonate," countered Morita. "My money's on that."

"Cap?" said Dugan. "You want in on the action?"

"I'm not going to bet on how we're going to fail," Steve replied. He took a sip of tea from the delicate China cup, pinky-out and everything. Just when Bucky thought he was making progress with his friend, he went and did something like this. It was as if he'd learnt to drink tea from a dame. Or Monty. "Because I don't believe this mission will be a failure."

"We're not saying that we'll _fail_ , per se," said Jones. "Just that if something _does_ go wrong, it'll give us the chance to rise to the opportunity to overcome it."

"I've had enough of overcoming the odds, thanks. I'll pass this time."

"Fine," Dugan huffed. "C'mon Barnes, you started this whole doom and gloom thing. Since you're the one who suggested something _would_ go wrong, what do you think it will be?"

Soldiers didn't need much reason to gamble, but it was hard to gamble when you had an unlimited number of variables.

"Oh, I dunno." It would be just his luck that whatever he said would come to pass. Winning the bet was no fun if the team suffered. Unless… there _might_ be a way to find a happy compromise. "I think we'll get captured by Nazis, successfully fight our way out, but then Dugan will be knocked unconscious in the fight."

"I bet the same thing," said Dugan, "except it's Barnes who gets KO'd. From a single punch, too."

"Y'know, stealing another guy's ideas just shows how boring and unoriginal you are."

"Hey, Jacques, you wanna place a bet?" Jones called.

Dernier, who'd been sitting by the window wearing a pensive-face that he could'a borrowed from Steve, glanced around at the Commandos and shook his head. "Mission is perfect," he said. "No problems. They never see us coming."

"Is everything alright, Jacques?" Steve asked him.

"Oui, oui. Is just, being back in France makes me realise how far is yet to go… and how much I miss my home."

Bucky could read uncertainty in Steve's entire being. The guy had never been good at asking for things from others. Finally, he said, "Y'know, once this mission is over, if you wanna stay in France, I'd understand."

The suggestion roused Dernier out of his melancholy. He straightened up and gave Steve a convivial slap on the shoulder. "And then who will make your explosives, eh? I promise to join your team, and I stay until war is won. Besides, SSR pays better than Resistance."

"Excuse me." Mariette stepped into the room, putting an end to their round of gambling. "Clement has arrived with your vehicles. If you are refreshed, you should continue your mission."

"Of course, ma'am," said Steve. "And thank you for your hospitality."

Mariette gave him one of _those_ smiles. Bucky could remember a time when he used to get _those_ smiles from dames, while Steve hung back, afraid of putting himself out there. Too bad he would never appreciate _those_ smiles. Not from anyone other than Carter, at least.

Outside the house, they found their new rides; two Traction Avants that had seen better days. One seemed to be held together by rust and hope, and both front windows were missing. The other held large dents in the hood, and an ominous spray of bullet-holes decorated the entire passenger side of the chassis. Desperate times…

The wind had picked up over the past hour, and the windows of the house rattled with the force. Jean, standing in the open doorway of his home, had to shout to make himself heard. "Best of luck to you and your team, Captain Rogers. Our thoughts go with you. Oh, and don't worry about returning the cars once you are done with them; it is unlikely they will see further missions." He turned to Dernier and said something in French, to which Dernier responded in the same.

"What was all that about?" Bucky asked their explosives expert, as they hopped into the back of the bullet-ridden car being driven by Falsworth. The other Commandos rode with Steve.

"He offered to pass message along to my family," Jacques explained. "I want them to know I am still alive. Still fighting."

It was a tough gig that Dernier had. So close to his family, yet still so far away. An entire ocean separated Bucky from his family, but at least he could get letters to them, and they to him. Back with the 107th, letters from home had been the highlight of the day. Something innocent and familiar to look forward to.

They rolled out of the tiny little town and headed down the road in a northerly direction. Both cars were driven without headlights, to minimise the chances of them being spotted. This wasn't like the south of France that the 107th had previously trekked across; the area here was more populous, more familiar, less wild. At the first sign of another vehicle, they would have to turn off the road and hope they would be passed by.

"Is it just me," Bucky asked after a few moments, "or is this car kinda… shaking." His teeth were chattering together, and it definitely wasn't because of cold, or nerves.

Falsworth gave him a quick side-glance before turning his gaze back to the dark road. "I don't know whether to be pleased or not that you can feel it too. I think it's the suspension… or what's left of it."

Something white suddenly flew out of the missing window of the car in front and tumbled past their car on a swirling wind. Bucky got a brief glace as it blew past, and the sight made his heart sink.

"Erm… was that the map?" asked Falsworth.

Steve's car slowed to a stop, and Monty followed suit. It was a very sheepish-looking Captain America who stepped out of the vehicle.

"Please tell us you did not just lose the map," Bucky aimed at his friend.

Steve's guilty head-scratch was all the confirmation he needed. "I was handing it over to Dugan, so he could navigate, but our car doesn't have any windows in the front, and the wind kinda snatched it from Dugan's hand…"

Bloody Dugan! "That's okay, I'm sure Monty has a back-up map. Right, Monty?"

"I will absolutely bring a back-up map along for the next mission," Monty nodded fervently.

Steve groaned, and Bucky reined in the _I-told-you-so_ that so desperately wanted to come out and play. Maybe next time he warned the team about bad omens, they'd listen to him.

"I'll run back and get it," Steve said. "It can't have blown too far. I think I saw a dirt track up ahead leading off into the trees… get these cars off the road and conserve the gas until I get back."

"I have bad feeling in stomach." Dernier patted his tummy as he watched Steve jog off down the road back towards town.

"You and me both, pal," Bucky sighed. "Guess we better do as Steve said."

The 'dirt path', while conveniently located, was little more than a muddy track that probably led to some cow field. To conserve fuel, they killed both engines and waited for Steve to return. When he finally did, he was empty handed.

"It must've blown high; I couldn't find any sign of it," he explained. "But don't worry, I got a good look at it earlier, I'm pretty sure I know the roads we need to take to reach our target. Just follow us closely, and I'll get us there."

It wasn't ideal, but old-Steve had a pretty good memory, and new-Steve's memory was even better. He'd been able to mark HYDRA bases from a map he'd glimpsed only for seconds; this would be much easier.

Steve returned to his car, and Monty started up the engine of theirs. It shuddered to life with a sigh, as if the mere act of starting was almost too much effort. Thank God they didn't have far to drive; these things were even worse than the battered old Czech truck that'd been their chariot through Prussia and Poland.

For a full minute they sat there, waiting for Steve to lead the way. After the minute, Dernier leaned forward from the back seat, and asked, "Que?"

"Good question," Falsworth replied. He rolled down his window—it only went halfway before jamming—and stuck his head out as far as he could manage. "I say, Captain, are you having any difficulties over there?"

Steve's head appeared like a spectre through the windowless door. "Err… well, the engine isn't exactly starting."

"Should we tow you?"

"Umm, probably not the best idea to try that," Bucky told him. "We're not exactly driving a jeep, here. Our car can barely pull its own weight, much less another vehicle's… plus the team inside."

"I see your point." He raised his voice and shouted, "Should we give you a bit of a push? Maybe we could bump-start it."

"Just give us a minute," Steve called back. "Morita's gonna take a look. His dad used to own a motor yard, and he's picked up a few things about cars."

"Alright, I'll keep our engine running. Just in case."

Bucky sat back and wrapped his arms around himself for warmth. He missed the sweltering heat of southern France, and the muggy dampness of London. Still, at least it wasn't as cold as Norway…

Out of habit, he checked his watch. Still five thirty-five. Officially the longest night ever.

"How long as Morita been working?" he eventually asked Monty.

"A little over half an hour. Give him time. Cars are tricky things. Or so I assume. I've always been more of a bicycle man, myself."

A short time after that, Morita came trotting over, hands covered in oil. The team clustered around the second car, where Bucky, Monty and Dernier were still sheltering from the icy gusts.

"The short of it is, the head gasket has blown," Morita explained.

"But you can fix it," said Captain Optimism. "Right?"

"Sure. With the right tools, the spare part, and a couple of days, I could strip the engine down, replace the gasket, then build the engine back up again. But even if I had the part, chances are that this gasket's been on its way out for a while. If you don't get these things quickly, they have a habit of letting coolant leak into the engine. It's basically a death sentence, and given how much antifreeze these guys were puttin' in their cars to keep them running through winter… well, I don't think we're going to get it going again."

Steve eyed the second car. "How many of us do you think we can squeeze into there?"

A scene played out in Bucky's mind; the Commandos arriving at their destination and tumbling out of the car like circus clowns in an unending stream of bodies. It would certainly give the enemy something to laugh about.

"Five at a push," said Jones. He peered into the back. "Looks pretty cosy back there."

"I'm not sure the car could handle five," Monty said. "Sergeant Barnes and I have noticed the suspension is a little… shaky."

"Well. That's just fantastic," said Steve. With a sigh, he sat down on the hood. The car rocked and groaned in response, and he quickly stood up again. "Suggestions?"

Dugan stepped forward and pounded his fist into the palm of his hand. "We set a trap on the road. Ambush the first vehicle that comes along."

"It seems a pretty quiet road," said Monty. "And I suspect it's only going to get quieter as the night goes on. Besides, the first vehicle might belong to a civilian. I don't feel comfortable robbing an innocent person just to achieve our mission."

"We should go on foot," said Morita. "It'll take longer to get there and back, but if we set a fast march and cut across country rather than following the roads, we should be able to make it in time for extraction."

Dernier's nod of agreement was enthusiastic, and a familiar gleam shone in his eyes. "Oui, leave cars. We take fuel, I make better explosion."

"Y'know, I think you have an unhealthy obsession with making 'better' explosions," said Morita.

A proud, shameless grin crept across the Frenchman's face. "Hopefully Germans agree."

"Alright," said Steve, "maybe this breakdown is for the best. If we cut across country we can make a beeline for the facility. We'll be safer and less likely to be spotted than if we travelled by road. And Dernier can have his 'better' explosion to really put paid to HYDRA."

It took a little doing, but they transferred all their water to three canteens, and filled the other four with fuel. What gas was left they let leak out onto the ground, so that even if the vehicles were found by Nazis, they couldn't be used for pursuit. In short time, the team was packed up and ready to go. Following Steve, they set out in a northerly direction.

The forest was silent, as if the animals and the insects and the trees themselves were deep in a winter slumber. A city boy through and through, Bucky had never truly appreciated how the different seasons could affect a place. Sure, in Fall, the trees lining the city streets lost their leaves, and in winter, snow made driving a hazard. In summer, children sought welcome relief from the heat under the cool spray of bust fire hydrants. But for the most part, the days in New York passed much the same, with the shortening or lengthening days the greatest indicator of the passing seasons.

Being back in France, he realised what life must be like for those who didn't live in big cities. From the dry, rocky, south of France, to the damp, green north, he'd gone from one extreme to the other. There was no short walk to the convenience store, here. No streetcar to hop on, no tube to catch, no vibrant nightlife to indulge in to forget about the biting wind for a time.

Morita stopped so suddenly that Bucky almost went right into the back of him. Slamming on the proverbial brakes, he hunched his shoulders against the wind and said, "What's the hold-up?"

"Beats me," Morita replied. Balancing on tiptoes, he peered over the shoulder of Jones and called out, "Hey, what's going on up there?"

"The Captain can smell something," Falsworth called back.

"Probably his own oversized feet," Morita grumbled. "He's been complaining about smells since he pulled us outta Krausberg."

"And hearing things clearly since then, too," Steve's voice called back.

"Damn super-hearing," Morita complained, at the same volume.

Bucky sniffed the air, and a familiar scent tickled his nose. In an instant, he was back to being six years old, sittin' by the sofa, watching Dad pile the logs into the ancient wood-burning stove.

"I smell it too," Bucky said. "Burning wood. There must be a house near here."

"I think I see light up ahead," said Steve. "Let's check it out. If there are Nazis in these woods, we need to know where they are."

Weapons were drawn as they crept forward. Nobody was laughin' or jokin' now. There was a time for levity, and this wasn't it. In the darkness, his eyes strained for every scrap of light, and the breaths of the Commandos were thunderstorms to his ears. If there were Nazis ahead, the team would either have to avoid them, or deal with them. He hoped, for Steve's sake, they could be avoided.

It wasn't a house. It was a campfire, the naked flames dancing violently as the wind tried to extinguish them. Tree-shadows were thrown around and, still a couple of dozen paces out, it took Bucky a long moment to spot the figures huddled around the fire. Two of them, one larger than the other. If they spoke, it was too quietly for him to hear their words.

Steve raised his fist and, like a pack of hunting dogs, the Commandos stopped and froze. One of the figures by the fire—the larger one—shifted, as if rearranging a coat. Bucky caressed the trigger of his pistol; since there hadn't been a foreseen need for a sniper rifle, he'd left the SSR-02 behind. Hopefully that wouldn't prove to be a mistake.

From his pocket, Monty pulled out a pair of binoculars. He peered through, then shook his head. "They've got their backs to the fire, I can't make them out. But I don't think they've seen us. You want to go around them?"

Steve squinted at the fire. Bucky could _see_ his train of thought. Why would Nazis be camping out in winter? And if they weren't Nazis, who else—other than the Commandos—would be crazy enough to be out in this weather, and at this time of night? If it was the Resistance, maybe they could give intel on the HYDRA facility.

"No, let's go take a look. I'd rather know who's out here with us."

They crept forward, alert for a trap. As they drew closer, Bucky heard a few words before they could be snatched away by the wind. He asked Dernier, who was next to him, "What are they saying?"

Dernier simply shrugged. "Is Dutch. I not speak."

The figures by the fire didn't realise, at first, that they were no longer alone. When they finally did, their reaction was not what Bucky was expecting. The shorter figure ran to the side of the taller figure and, issuing a rapid stream of Dutch, physically dragged him by the arm around the other side of the fire, putting it between them and the Commandos.

"Please don't be afraid," said Steve. "We're not going to hurt you."

Only when they'd stopped moving did Bucky get a better look at the two people. The larger was an old man, lanky white hair hanging down from beneath his cap. Tall despite the stoop to his shoulders, he clung to the hand of the shorter figure and tilted his head as he focused on the ground. Judging by the white film covering his eyes, his vision had been failing for quite some time. Probably longer than he'd been wearing the dirty, threadbare trousers and faded, undersized jacket.

The second figure was much shorter and slimmer. Her blue eyes were wide with fright, and her blond hair had been cut short. She too wore a cap, and was dressed in the worn-out clothes of a boy. If she was a refugee, they were probably the only clothes she'd been able to find.

The old man said something in Dutch, and the young woman replied in kind.

Steve shot a helpless look at Jones. "Private?"

"Sorry Captain, I don't know what that is," Jones said. To the cowering figures, he asked, "Sprechen zu Deutsche?" The young woman shook her head. "Ou Français?"

"Oui, pas mal de Français," she replied. Then, she cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, it was in a slightly deeper tone. "We speak some English."

"Who are you, and what are you doing out here?" Steve asked.

His question finally seemed to rouse the old man. Letting go of the woman's arm, he took a step forward. "I am Ruben Moens and this is my grandson, Pieter. We are hiking in the woods."

"You mean 'granddaughter'?"

The old man—Ruben—shook his head and gave a dismissive wave. "No, no. Many people make that mistake."

"Yeah," said Morita, eyeing up 'Pieter'. "It's probably because he's actually a girl."

Not just a girl, but a girl wearing the worst 'boy' disguise Bucky had ever seen. Even Agent Carter had made a more convincing man than this young woman did.

"Look," said Steve, putting on his patient-voice, "you don't need to be afraid of us. We're here to help free Europe from Nazi control."

"Bah!"

"Opa," the 'boy' intervened. She—or he—whatever—took the old man's hand and rambled out a stream of Dutch. Such a strange language. Some words sounded so like English that he could guess their meaning, while the rest sounded like even greater gobbledygook than French. Hadn't Nurse Klein said her family was Dutch? A shame she wasn't here now, to translate. "Forgive him," she said to the team in English. "He is old and mistrustful of soldiers. My name is Antje. And as you guess, I am not a boy."

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," said Steve. "And you too, Mr. Moens. I'm Captain Steve Rogers, with the Strategic Scientific Reserve. These are my teammates: Major James Falsworth of the British Army, Sergeant Bucky Barnes, Sergeant Dum Dum Dugan, Private Gabe Jones, Private Jim Morita, and Mr. Jacques Dernier, who is with the French Resistance."

"Enchanté," said Dernier, doffing his hat and offering a bow.

"I don't mean to pry," Steve said, "but what are you doing outside on a night like this? The winter is no time for a young lady and an… err… older gentleman… to be camping out."

"We are going to Switzerland," said Antje. Beneath the tired eyes and days-old grime, she had a pretty smile.

"That's enough, Antje," said Ruben. "They could be German spies."

"Oh Opa, they're not. I see their uniforms. Plus, one has black skin. I have seen men with black skin before, in Antwerp, but not since the Germans invaded."

"Antwerp?" Jones asked.

"It's in Belgium," Monty elaborated. "A bustling trade port… or at least, it was. Now it mostly receives German ships and U-boats."

"You're a long way from Belgium," said Steve. He'd probably memorised a map of the whole of central Europe before boarding the plane.

"And longer still from Switzerland," Monty added. "Why are you trying to get there?"

"We have heard there is safety, in Switzerland," Antje explained. "That we may be safe there."

"You're Jewish?" asked Steve.

"And proud," Ruben said, standing a little taller. "But just because we are proud of our heritage does not mean we are willing to be killed for it. The Nazis have taken so much from us already."

"Y'know…" said Morita, all sorts of hesitation written all over his face, "I don't want to burst your bubble or anything, but the official word is that Swiss borders are closed. They're also shooting down any plane that crosses their airspace, regardless of which side it's on. Switzerland might be a safe haven for any Jews already there, but I doubt they'd take in any more."

It was as if somebody had removed the only thing keeping the old man up. He sank to the ground before his granddaughter could react, his face ashen, tears spilling from his unseeing eyes. Steve stepped forward to help Antje move him closer to the fire.

"Then it is over," he said quietly. "There is no point travelling any further. We must stay in France or return to Belgium, and hope that we can avoid the Nazi patrols that plague both countries."

"Maybe not," said Bucky. He gestured Steve over, and said quietly, "there will be room on the plane for a half-starved girl and an old man. If we leave them here, they don't stand a chance." He couldn't help but see his own younger sister, Janet, in the face of Antje.

"I know," Steve whispered back, his eyes running over the pair by the fire. "But we can't take them with us to the facility, even if we knew exactly where it was; they'd slow us down and be in danger during the attack."

"What facility?" the old man asked. "Don't be surprised; when my sight left me long ago, my hearing improved."

Steve gestured to the Commandos. "Guys, why don't you warm yourselves up for a moment and have something to eat and drink?"

Bucky could see where Steve was going with his suggestion. Both civilians were underweight and probably malnourished. Military rations were designed to give the body what it needed.

As rations were passes around, Steve asked, "Will you tell us about the Nazis in Antwerp, and your journey so far?"

"It is a story no doubt repeated by many Jews in Europe," said Ruben. "We are no different to any others, though luckier than some."

"Still, I'd like to hear about where you come from, and how you got here."

 _Smart, Steve_ , Bucky thought to his friend. If they were to somehow get these two back to England, they'd need to make sure the pair weren't really German spies. And if they had any intel to give, Phillips would be more understanding of their presence. Probably. Hopefully.

Ruben sighed, but the ration bar he'd been given seemed to take the edge off his crankiness. "My family has lived in Antwerp for four generations, where we have a history as distinguished horologists."

"Horo-what?" asked Jones.

"Horology is the study of time and time-pieces, Private. My grandfather was the finest clockmaker in Antwerp, and my father followed in his footsteps. I myself studied for four years at the British Horological Institute, where I learnt the craft of watchmaking. It is a craft I taught to my son, who took over my shop when my sight failed me, and a skill I now try to teach to my granddaughter, so that she has something to make a living by when I am gone."

He could scarcely believe his ears. Just a few hours ago, his dad's trusted watch had stopped working, and now, in the middle of nowhere, he'd found someone who was capable of repairing it. If the watch breaking was a bad omen, then surely this was the exact opposite. What, other than divine intervention, could've placed an accomplished watchmaker directly on his path on this day, in this place?

"Would you be able to fix my watch?" he asked, before Ruben could continue his story. "It stopped working earlier today. It belonged to my dad, and he gave it to me when I shipped off for my basic training."

"Show it to Antje," said Ruben.

Bucky tugged his sleeve up, unbuckled the watch, and handed it over to Antje. The girl held it out to the firelight, turning it this way and that, running her fingers along the decoration on the back. As she did, she spoke in Dutch; probably describing it to the old man.

"I have never encountered this model before," said Ruben. "But mechanical watches like this are usually easy to fix. I have my tools with me, but wouldn't like even an accomplished watchmaker to try fixing a delicate piece of equipment in this darkness and wind. I can talk Antje through the repairs, but not here."

As Antje handed back the watch, Steve asked, "How long have you been running?"

"Since the Germans invaded Belgium."

"That's over three years!" said Monty. "How have you managed to survive for so long?"

"It has not been easy." Ruben rubbed at his hands; his knuckles were red and swollen with cold. Possibly with arthritis. Even if he had his sight, he probably wasn't capable of the precision work required for watch repair anymore. "When the Belgian army surrendered, we knew it would only be a short time before the Nazis marched on Antwerp. With my vision starting to fail, I knew I couldn't find our documents in time. My son went to our home, to secure everything we would need for travel. I managed to get to Antje's school, and took her straight out of class. My wife refused to leave without our daughter and her children, so she went to the southern side of the city, where they lived with my son-in-law.

"We were to meet in a barn outside the city. But the Nazis moved faster than we could've guessed. They had tanks, and many cars. Antje and I just made it out in time. At the barn, we waited. For three days, we waited, having nothing but water from the farm well to sustain us. On the fourth day, we knew that we could wait not longer. We had no provisions, no spare clothes, no money, and no identity papers. The longer we stayed, the greater the risk we would be caught.

"We travelled south, always at night. From time to time, we stayed with sympathetic people willing to hide us. Sometimes we stayed in a place for just a single night. Other times we were able to stay for weeks. I began to teach Antje my craft, and we were sometimes able to fix watches, and an occasional clock, in exchange for food and clothing. For three years we managed to avoid the patrols. Then, we heard a rumour that Jews were being offered sanctuary in Switzerland. Though I didn't know if it was true, I thought it was worth a try. I thought it would be easier to travel south through part of Luxembourg, than to skirt around it. Winter has been harsh. We have travelled slowly. And now we know we have travelled for nothing."

"But why'd you try to disguise yourself as a boy?" Bucky asked Antje. "No offence, but you're far too pretty to be a boy."

"We have heard stories," Ruben answered for her, "of soldiers forcing women against their will." They were _definitely_ not leaving Belgium without the pair. Bucky wouldn't be able to live with himself if something happened to Antje.

"Dressing as a boy will still get you shot on sight," Morita pointed out.

A dark scowl marred Antje's pretty features. "Better to be shot than raped and shot."

Steve sat up a little straighter. "You have my word that nothing will happen to either of you while we're here. We can handle German soldiers. And once our mission is complete, we'll take you back to England with us. You'll be safe, there."

"Will you really take us with you?" There was a sparkle in Antje's blue eyes that hadn't been there before, and it warmed Bucky's heart to know that the young woman could still find some excitement, something to look forward to. "Opa has told me many stories of England. I have always wanted to visit there."

"I'm afraid you'll find England much affected by the war," Monty said, "though you will be considerably safer there than here. And perhaps our intelligence service can help you find out what's happened to your family."

"What is this mission you speak of?" Ruben asked. "Will you be here long?"

"Well, that depends," Steve explained. "Our mission is to destroy a refinery just over the border into Luxembourg. Unfortunately, we lost our map. We know the direction the refinery lies in, but not its exact location."

"We passed a… fabriek?" Antje shook her head, and said to Dernier, "La usine?"

Dernier nodded. "A factory. Quand?"

"Two nights past. I did not like the look of it. There was so much fencing, I thought it was a work camp. But I did not see any prisoners, and the flag on the post made me shiver."

"Did it look like this?" Steve pulled his notepad from his pocket and quickly sketched out HYDRA's emblem.

"Yes. It was like a monster, blowing in the wind."

"That's our place. Could you draw us a map to where you saw it?"

Antje shook her head. "But I could lead you there."

"Antje, no, it will be dangerous!" said Ruben.

"Every day that we stay here is dangerous," she countered. "And these men have put themselves in danger to help end the war and free our people. I am tired of being afraid, Opa. I want this to be over, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get you to safety. You're all I have left."

The old man reached out for her, and she flung herself into his arms, burying her face against his shoulder. This, Bucky realised, was true heroism. Not trained soldiers coming over here to shoot Nazis, but simple, ordinary people, standing up for themselves and doing what they felt was right. Taking risks without having the training. Being brave in the face of overwhelming adversity.

"Okay," said Steve. "This is what I wanna do. Falsworth, you take Ruben back to where we left the cars. Take a canteen of fuel, drive back to Ottange. Morita, go with them in case of mechanical issues. Ask Jean to get a message back to our people. Tell them not to send a plane for our scheduled pick-up. We can't risk it being shot down for nothing. Get a new set of rendezvous co-ordinates, and tell them I'll activate our transponder when we're ready to be extracted. The rest of us will go with Antje, and complete the mission we came here to carry out. Once we're done, we'll hightail it back to Ottange and meet up with Falsworth's team."

"As simple as that," said Dugan.

"As simple as that," Steve agreed.

Bucky knew it wasn't going to be as simple as that, but he kept his mouth firmly shut. Simple or not, he couldn't leave Ruben and Antje behind. No matter what it took, he would make sure they reached safety.

* * *

 _Author_ _'s note: Terrible news, dear readers! After Crazy amount of chapters, and Even Crazier amount of words, the unthinkable has finally happened: I have run out of pre-written chapters. While I do have outlines written for the next 20 or 30 chapters, I simply lack the time to write and edit them on a weekly basis. So, while I'll still try to update the story on Sundays wherever possible, it's more likely that my updates will be rather sporadic, at least until I can get sufficient time off work to allow me to write in advance, as I have been doing for the past 2 years. Therefore please, if you wish to be kept apprised of updates and haven't already 'followed' the story, this would be an opportune time to do that. Alternatively, if you could send typewriter-proficient helper-monkeys to assist me, that would be super awesome also._

 _Big thanks to Guest 101 for your kind words, and for the vote of confidence. However, how Bucky became the Winter Soldier isn_ _'t a story that particularly interests me as a writer_ _ **or**_ _a reader. As an avid fan of the Torture Your Protagonist method of writing, I already spent far too much time doing that to Deadpool in my Deadpool fics, and have no desire to do it to Bucky in a story to bridge this one and Running To You. There are adequate flashbacks in Running To You to cover that particular topic, and I simply feel there is more fun to be had elsewhere. Besides, there are many Bucky-as-Winter-Soldier fics out there, and some will undoubtedly do a far better job at addressing Bucky_ _'s brainwashing than I ever could._

 _If you_ _'re short of things to do between my updates, I wrote a Voltron fic a while back and am in the process of publishing that (though it's not canon for season 7, as I wrote it before S7 came out) so you could check that out if you're a fan of the show (and if you aren't a fan of the show, shame on you!) Alternatively if you're looking for good Cap recs, go read You Will Call Me Friend by cairistiona7, Opposites Collide by Mellia Bee, Define Stupid by JayRain, or The Reconstruction by Qweb. They are all very excellent stories written by very excellent authors of Cap fics and will give you a good range of every emotion from angst to fluffy feels. I also feel the need to advise you to watch Stranger Things and Violet Evergarden (both available on Netflix) if you haven't already, because both of these things are worthy of spending time on. Stranger Things, in particular, gives me all manner of nostalgic feels, and proves that you don't need an iPhone to defeat interdimensional monsters. You really don't._


	104. Casket

We Were Soldiers

 _104\. Casket_

Taking a civilian along on a mission didn't sit right with Steve. It was one thing to work with members of local resistance groups. It was one thing to allow Freddie to join in on those missions deemed safe enough for a wartime photographer to be present. But it was quite another to take along a young woman who'd spent a considerable period of her life hiding from Nazis.

But the other options didn't sit right with him, either. He couldn't've left Antje and Ruben behind; they might've been picked up by a patrol, or moved on in the night and disappeared forever. Nor could he have aborted the entire mission for the pair. The stakes were too high for that.

Since he only had a general idea of the location of the HYDRA facility, and his team may have wasted long hours searching for it, it made sense to bring along the one person who'd seen it with her own eyes. Taking the old man was out of the question, but he dearly hoped he wouldn't later regret sending both Monty and Morita back to Ottange with Ruben. Maybe he should've kept Morita with the group, for the extra manpower.

The rest of the team didn't seem to share his concerns. Dugan kept his beady eyes on the forest ahead, vigilant in unfamiliar territory. Jones and Dernier whispered quietly together, something about one of Jacques' first missions for the French Resistance. Something involving pancakes.

And Bucky… Bucky was doing one of the things that Bucky did best: chattin' to dames. He walked beside Antje, dividing his attention between the girl and the forest. Steve would've rolled his eyes at the typical Buckyishness of it, only, his friend hadn't been typical Bucky lately. In fact, it was so nice to see Bucky without a frown, or the shadows of Krausberg lurking behind his eyes, that Steve took a few steps aside, to try and give them the illusion of privacy. It didn't work. Super-hearing.

"Your English is very good," said Bucky. "Much better than Dugan's."

"Shove it, Barnes," Dugan grumbled from ahead.

"Thank you," said Antje. "My grandfather is a good teacher, and we have had a long time to practice. I think he only started teaching me to keep my mind off worrying about how we would survive another day."

"I can't imagine how tough the past few years have been on you. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

Antja shook her head. "It is just me."

"Wasn't that kinda lonely, growing up?"

"Oh, no! I had many friends, and two cousins who used to drive me crazy when they came to visit every weekend. Nobody can be lonely, in Antwerp." A wistful smile tugged at her lips. "I even miss school, sometimes. And I miss going to the synagogue, even though I thought it was very boring. Why is it that we never appreciate what we have until it's gone?"

"Human nature, I guess," said Bucky. "We take everything for granted. Even the stupid little things that don't seem important at the time."

"Well, from now on, that is not me." She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. After everything she'd been through, it was a wonder she had any strength left. In her situation, Steve was sure he would've buckled after the first few days. He didn't handle loss very well. "I will be grateful for every scrap of food and every pair of half-worn shoes and every ray of sunshine and every blade of grass. Back in Antwerp, I would've turned my nose up at dressing in a boy's shirt. Now, a new shirt would be such a luxury that I would feel blessed."

"When we get back to England, we'll get you some new clothes. Shirts or dresses or whatever you want. They might not be brand new, but they'll be in much better condition than what you have now."

Her responding smile was shy, but there was a sparkle of excitement in her blue eyes. "With a few scraps of material and a sewing kit, I could make my own dresses. I used to love doing my needlework. When I was younger, I thought I might become a seamstress, and make fine dresses for fine ladies."

"You don't wanna become a watchmaker, like your grandfather?" Jones chipped in. Somewhere along the way, listening to Antje had become more interesting than listening to Dernier's pancake story. Even Dugan had slowed his pace a little, to listen in on what she said. Steve let that slide, because his senses were keen enough and the forest was quiet enough for him to hear or see anything long before Dugan would be aware of it. And besides, listening to Antje helped to remind them all what they were out here fighting for: to help people whose lives had been destroyed by the machinations of evil men.

Her wrinkled nose was all the response she needed to give. "No. I learn because teaching me helps Opa to keep _his_ mind off thinking about how we will survive another day. And because, in his heart, he believes my father is dead. He wants somebody to carry on the family tradition, even if no woman has ever become a watchmaker before. But it is not where my heart is." She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. "My friends and I used to talk about having a shop in Antwerp, where we could sew and sell fashionable clothes. We thought we would be famous for our stylish designs, spoken of from Amsterdam to Paris. Women from as far away as London and Milan would come to buy from us. But those were stupid, childish dreams. My friends are all dead, or have fled the country. Even if the war was to end today, it would not bring them back."

"Here, take this," said Bucky. He shrugged off his backpack, unbuttoned his jacket, and draped it over Antje's shoulders. "You must be freezing in those patchy clothes."

She clasped it closed with a grateful smile. Steve suspected that, when they got back to England, Antje might be just what Bucky needed to start healing the wounds inflicted by Krausberg. Showing the young woman around the city, helping her find her feet, would certainly give him something to look forward to between missions.

Not for the first time, he realised how lucky he was. Antje hadn't just lost her family; she'd lost her entire world. Her hopes and dreams and her childhood had been snatched away from her. Steve had lost a lot, but to lose _everything_ … it was more than he could bear to think about.

Dugan cleared his throat, and asked, "Did you say you passed this facility two nights ago?"

"Yes. But we had to travel very slowly, because of my grandfather. At this speed, we will reach it much faster. Before the sun comes up."

Steve nodded to himself. He'd figured it might take them several hours to walk what should've been less than an hour's drive, especially since their pace was moderated by the forest. He knew he could keep the pace up all night, and probably the Commandos, too. But Antje was another matter.

"Just let us know if you start to get tired," he told the young woman. "I don't expect you to march at an army's pace all night."

"I will keep up," she assured him. "The sooner your mission is over, the sooner we can leave, and the sooner we will be safe." And, just when he thought she couldn't possibly make him feel any worse for her, she chewed on her thumbnail for a moment before saying, "The reason we have to go slow for my grandfather is not because he's blind. I see for him, but when he walks for a while, he gets pains in his chest. He struggles to breathe. Sometimes, his lips turn blue, and I fear he might stop breathing. Please, promise me you will do whatever you can for him. He is the only family I have left. If anything happened to him, I don't know how I will live without him."

"We'll get the doctors to take a look at him," Bucky promised. "They're good doctors, they've helped a lot of people. He'll be in good hands."

"Thank you." She brushed a tear from her cheek, and it made her seem very young.

"If you don't mind me asking," said Steve, "How old are you?"

"Seventeen," she said. "Opa wishes he started teaching me watchmaking when I was younger. I'm a little too old to start; most men are only boys when they begin to learn the skills."

Seventeen. About the same age as Bucky's youngest sister. Not far off the age Steve had been when he'd lost his mom.

"You've got a milestone birthday coming up, then," said Jones. "Are you looking forward to turning eighteen?"

"No. The day I turned fourteen was the day the Germans invaded my country. Each year, that date is a painful reminder of everything I lost that day. I will never celebrate my birthday again."

The story of Antje's life was like one long tragedy. Hearing everything she'd endured certainly put things into perspective. And even as he walked through the cold French forest, his mind took him back, to his own past...

 _The casket was dark, and when Steve reached out to run his fingers along the grain of the lid, it was cold to the touch. This was to be his mother_ _'s final resting place. This cold, dark, 'basic' model. The only one he could afford._

 _Wrenching his hand away, he blinked back tears and looked up at the sympathetic face of the salesman. And that was when he realised. He couldn_ _'t do this. It was too much. All of it. Too much for him to bear. The casket. The flowers. The endless stream of well-wishers stopping by the apartment. The six casseroles sittin' in the coldbox in the kitchen. The prayer. The hymns. The memorial book. The photograph._

 _He didn_ _'t know how to arrange a funeral. And he didn't want to._

" _Please, take all the time you need," the salesman said. "I understand that this is difficult for you."_

 _All the time in the world wasn_ _'t all the time he needed. There wasn't enough time. Not for this. Two days ago, the coroner had signed the death certificate. And just like that, Sarah Rogers had been declared officially dead. As if it wasn't enough to sit by her bedside and listen to each painfully rattling breath. As if it wasn't enough to feel the grip of her hand on his becoming softer as she slipped further and further from his reach. As if it wasn't enough that he'd heard something inside her chest go pop and then heard no more breaths taken in. There had been no rush of nurses to her bedside. Nobody had called out for help. They hadn't tried to bring her back. There was nothing to bring her back to; just a body too ravaged by tuberculosis to nourish the kind, gentle soul that had lived inside it._

 _As if all that wasn_ _'t enough, he'd then been handed the certificate. As if he didn't already know his mother had died._

 _The cold, dark wood of the casket brought his mind back from the worst moment of his entire life. He didn_ _'t know what kind of wood it was, only that it wasn't good enough for Mom. It wasn't just the wood; it was the shape of the casket. It was plain. Undecorated. Too obviously casket-shaped. It wasn't a resting place; it was a box for a body to be buried in._

 _Well, his mother was not going to be_ _'a body'. She was going to be seen off in a casket more befitting the wonderful, caring person she'd been._

 _He cleared his throat. Tried to swallow the lump that_ _'d stuck there since Ward Sister O'Toole had told him to get to the hospital and say his goodbyes. Blinked back the tears that stung his already-raw eyes._

" _Show me something else."_

" _Of course. Please step over here… this is the next model up in our price range." The salesman stood beside a nicer casket. This one was an improvement. The wood wasn't as cold, and it had a little brass decoration on the handles._

" _How much?" he asked._

 _The salesman told him. Steve_ _'s fingers curled up, nails biting into his palm Why did it cost so much for a wooden box?_

" _As you can see," said the salesman, lifting the lid to display the inside, "the lining is a very fine material blend. This is one of our most popular models for those on a budget. Here, feel the lining for yourself, if you like."_

 _He didn_ _'t like. He didn't want to reach out and touch it. To forever imagine the box his mother would be buried in. To picture her pale face contrasted against the navy-blue material. He didn't want to do this._

 _But this casket was better than the cheapest one. He could afford it. If he started walking to the college campus, instead of taking the streetcar, he could afford it. If he went down from three meals per day, to two_ _—he could afford it. If he sold the Lou Gehrig baseball card Bucky had given him for his birthday last year_ _… he could afford it. Mom was worth all that, and so, so much more. She'd been his rock. His strength. His comfort. She believed in him, and so he believed in himself. She was the only family he had… and he didn't know how to live without her._

" _Steve! I'm so sorry we're late!"_

 _Mrs Barnes swept into the room, her black dress billowing around her. Uncaring of the salesman, she pulled Steve into her arms, cradling his head against her shoulder. Her dress smelled of the lavender sprigs she hung in wardrobes and secreted in drawers to keep the moths away. Mom did the same thing. He would never smell lavender without thinking of her._

" _Mrs Barnes, you really didn't need to come," he said, his words muffled against the fabric of her dress. When she finally released him, she was replaced by Mary-Ann, and then Mr Barnes, and finally Bucky. Steve's best friend pulled him into a tight hug bereft of its usual jovial shoulder-slap._

" _Nonsense," Mrs Barnes replied. She took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. They, like Steve's, were bloodshot. "Charlie's more than happy to look after Janet for an hour or two. I couldn't bear the thought of you coming here alone."_

" _That's right," said Mary-Ann. She clung to his arm, her hand tight as a vice in his. He didn't have the heart to tell her that her grip was painful. "You shouldn't be alone, Steve."_

 _Alone. A word that defined him. No father. No mother. A grandmother he_ _'d only met twice in his entire life. Maybe she was dead, too. It was easier to imagine that she'd passed away, than to imagine that she was still living out there, wanting nothing to do with him or Mom._

" _We were just discussing the merits of this casket's quality lining," the salesman said._

" _What about that one, over there?" Mrs Barnes crossed the room to the section Steve hadn't even bothered examining further. He could never afford anything as nice as those._

" _Ah yes," the salesman said, his tone immediately brighter. "That model is at the top end of our Trappist casket range. Please, come for a closer look."_

 _Mrs Barnes followed the salesman, and Mr Barnes followed her. Steve had no choice in the matter. With Mary-Ann clinging to his arm, and Bucky_ _'s arm around his shoulders, as if they were simultaneously propping him up and stopping him from leaving, he was led over to the glossy, expensive section._

" _This is the finest model money can buy," the salesman continued. "Note the exquisite pattern of the wood; Trappist caskets are crafted from only the finest pieces of polished walnut, and are inlaid with a luxurious silk lining. All hand-made in America, of course."_

" _It's beautiful," Mrs Barnes said. "Don't you agree, Cal?"_

" _I'm sure Sarah would approve," Mr Barnes agreed._

" _What do you think, Steve?"_

" _Mrs Barnes, I can't afford this," he said. No point mincing words, or pretending the situation was anything other than what it was. Mom had put a little money away, to help with costs, but even then, it wasn't enough for this._

" _Steve, you can be such a doofus at times," said Bucky, squeezing his shoulders._

" _You don't think we'd let you bear this cost alone, do you?" Mr Barnes added._

" _That's really nice of you and all," he began, "but you don't have t—"_

" _Steven Grant Rogers, not another word!" said Mrs Barnes, pressing her finger across his lips to prevent another objection. "I know you feel like you have to do this all yourself, but nothing could be further from the truth. Now, I know how stubborn and proud you can be, but there's one thing you have to understand: Sarah was my best friend, and I owe her so much. All those nights she stayed up to help me when Janet had colic, even though she'd just come off a night shift. The time she looked after you kids when I tripped and broke my arm. The way she sewed up Cal's busted head, after he got into that stupid fight. All the wonderful times we shared together. I want to buy this casket for her, but if you would prefer something plainer… well, I'll be hurt and upset and positively devastated, of course, but I'll defer to your wishes. Or, if you approve of the casket, you can contribute towards it. Because I think Sarah would want us to do this together. So, what do you say, Steve?"_

"Steve? Are you listening? Steve!"

The insistent tone of Bucky's voice pulled him from the funeral parlor, back into the wintry woods. All of the Commandos stared at him as if he was mad.

"Sorry. Just going over attack plans in my mind." He hoped that, in the darkness, nobody could see the flush of warmth on his cheeks. He'd never been a very good liar. It was why Bucky always beat him at poker. "What were you saying?"

"Just that I think we should take a short break." He tilted his head in Antje's direction. The young woman's breaths were coming hard and fast. Definitely not used to an army's marching pace. "It'll give me chance to go do a little recon," he added.

"Alright. But I'll come with you. I want to get the lay of the land." He turned to the others. "Dugan, Jones, Dernier, take five. We'll be back shortly."

His three team-members shrugged off their packs and brought out their flasks of hot coffee. He didn't have to tell them not to a light a fire; they knew what they were doing. "C'mon," he said to Bucky. "Let's see if we can find a little high ground."

They walked in silence for several minutes, Steve's mind still full of the cobwebs of memory, Bucky's still full with… well, whatever Bucky's mind was full with these days. There were times when his best friend still felt like a stranger… but on the bright side, at least he seemed finally recovered—physically speaking—from his ordeals. In fact, he was probably in the best shape he'd been in his whole life.

"Aren't you cold without your jacket?" he asked.

Bucky shook his head. "Not so long as I keep moving. Wouldn't wanna stop for more than a few minutes, though."

"Y'know, Phillips is going to give us the chewing-out of our lives, when we bring back two civilians."

A smug grin inched its way across Bucky's face. "Give _you_ a chewing-out, you mean. You're our fearless leader, after all. Monty might get some, too. The rest of us dupes are just following your orders."

"It _was_ your idea to take Antje and Ruben back with us," he reminded his friend.

"I was just the first one to say it. You're not trying to tell me you would've left them out here if I hadn't suggested taking them back, are you?"

"No." Damn Bucky, and his salient point. "Of course not. I came out here to save lives. And it'll be a cold day _anywhere_ before I leave innocent people to the mercy of the Nazis."

"Do you really think all their family is dead?" Bucky asked after a moment.

"I don't know. I hope not… but maybe that's a fool's wish."

Bucky stopped, and turned to face him. In the darkness, he could just about make out the frown on his friend's face. "Remember last year, when I shipped out? I told you not to do anything stupid."

"Of course I remember."

"Well, I take that back. You're allowed to do stupid things. And if hoping Antje's family are alive is a fool's wish, then you're allowed to do foolish things, too."

"So glad to have your permission." With a quiet sigh, he gestured around at the forest. "Unfortunately, I don't think we're going to find any high ground around here. It's been pretty flat since we left Ottange, and we _must_ be over the border by now."

"I bet we could climb one of these for a better view." Bucky patted the truck of the nearest tree, and Steve eyed it warily. It looked pretty thin. Bucky seemed to sense his hesitance. "C'mon, you're great at climbing trees. I remember you used to climb that old apple tree in my backyard faster than anyone."

"Yeah, but that was when I weighed about ninety pounds." Out of all their childhood friends, the only one who could get to the high branches with him was Mary-Ann. "I'm not sure that tree will hold _my_ weight, much less both of us combined."

"Only one way to find out," twelve year old Bucky grinned at him. "Unless you're chicken, Rogers."

Before Steve could object, Bucky jumped to catch the lowest branch, then hauled himself up. Really, it was as if Bucky hadn't mentally grown up at all. And if Steve was just a _little_ quick in following, it wasn't because he wanted to show his best friend that he was still the fastest tree-climber in Brooklyn… he was just concerned for his friend's safety. That was all.

The cold wind tugged as his jacket as he climbed. It wasn't as difficult as he'd thought, to haul his greater mass up the tree. Then again, he also had a lot more muscle to support that mass. He not only caught up with Bucky, he overtook him. Finally, not far from the top, the branches became perilously thin, and he was forced to cease his ascent.

The view from his perch was bare and bleak. The branches of the leafless trees rose up to the sky like skeletal fingers, and the moonlight bathing the area was cold and weak. Yet in just a few short months, this whole area would be carpeted in green, from the ground up to the treetops. Nature was a wonderful, powerful thing.

"Didn't think it would be so breezy up here," said Bucky. His knuckles were white as he gripped the branch above him to try and limit the swaying.

"It's fresh alright," he agreed. He bit back his next words before they could escape his lips. He _wanted_ to ask if Bucky thought Monty and Morita were okay. But then, he'd come across as a worrier. A worrier who didn't have faith in his team members. Bucky and the rest of the guys needed to know that Steve's mind was in the here and now, focused on the mission ahead, not looking back at the men they'd left behind.

"Look! Over there!" Bucky pointed to something over Steve's shoulder, then made a desperate grab for his branch as the wind surged around them.

Slowly, carefully, Steve turned. At first, he thought Bucky's eyes were playing tricks on him. Then, something pale and grey curled into the sky. A plume of smoke, scattered as it rose by the gusting wind. And beneath it, just about visible above the trees, a series of three rectangular blocks; chimneys. Judging from the distance, their team could probably get there within two hours.

"She did it," he said, turning back to his friend. "She brought us to the right place."

"Finally something's going right," Bucky agreed. "And it's about damn time."

"C'mon, let's get back to the team. The sooner we get this over and done with, the sooner we go home."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky gratefully accepted the flask of steaming coffee from Jones as Steve told the others what they'd seen in the distance. When he was done, he turned to Antje.

"Is there anything you can tell me about the layout of that place? Any intel you can give will help us plan our attack, and if we know what we're up against before we get there, we can get it done faster."

The young woman shook her head. "Little. As soon as I saw the fencing around the building, I took Opa away as fast as I could."

"What kind of building was it? Did you see any guard posts? Or a gate leading in?"

"No. I'm sorry. I did see many large trucks parked inside the fence, but I had only a brief glimpse of the building. Its windows were barred, and men were on patrol inside. Though… I thought I saw a small space underneath the fence. As if a rabbit had burrowed beneath it. Though the fence is high, I don't think it goes far below ground. You might dig under it."

"Been a while since I had to use my entrenching tool," said Dugan. "I'd hoped I'd seen the last of digging holes in Europe."

"It'll probably be quieter than trying to go _over_ the fence," Steve mused. "Antje, did you see how many soldiers were patrolling the grounds?"

"I only saw one pair, but then, I only saw a small part of the facility. And it was all dark and shadowy. I'm sorry I could not be more help."

"Not at all, you've been a great help. Now, let's try to cover the ground as quickly as we can. I'll think about how we're going to tackle this, but I'll need to see the place for myself before settling on a plan. If you're all ready, let's move out."

They set out in the direction of the factory, marching in silence. Steve took point, and Bucky covered their six. He kept a watchful eye on Antje as they travelled. Even with his jacket draped around her shoulders, she shivered with the cold. But at least her ordeal—this part of it, anyway—was nearly over. Soon, she'd be safe from the Nazis. And she'd never have to worry about sleeping outside again.

Five miles later, they reached the outer perimeter of the factory. By the time Steve called a halt, a couple of hundred metres back from the fence line, Antje was panting hard. The march had taken a lot out of her, and she wouldn't have long at all to recover her stamina. Maybe bringing her along was a mistake after all. It wasn't her fault, but her presence would slow their escape, and they already had a lot of ground to cover to reach Ottange.

Well, what was done, was done. Antje had saved them valuable searching time, and if she was too tired to make it back to Ottange, he would just carry her, piggy-back style. She was probably no heavier than his pack, anyway.

Steve pulled out his binoculars, keeping up the pretense that he actually needed them despite everyone knowing he had 50/50 vision. When he was done, he passed them on to Jones so the rest of the team could take a look at what they were up against. It was not a promising sight. There was only one guard tower, but it stood tall, with four guards atop it, each keeping watch over every direction. Two machine gun emplacements stood by the sides of the gates, a pair of soldiers manning each position. Pairs of guards patrolled the perimeter, armed with those damn energy-rifles that'd caused so much damage amongst the fleeing prisoners of Krausberg. Even Stark was horrified by those. Or perhaps impressed by them. It was hard to tell, with Stark.

"I say we storm the place," said Dugan as he handed the binoculars back to Steve. "Go in guns blazing. Overpower those machine gun positions and turn them on the troops inside."

"Alternatively, die horribly," Jones quipped. "They'd gun us down before we even cleared the fence. And that's assuming the fence isn't electrified."

"Besides," added Bucky, "we already have a plan. We're digging _under_ the fence, remember?"

"Actually, we may not have to." Steve had a focused look on his face. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?" asked Jones. "All I hear's the wind."

Steve hoisted his pack onto his back. "Follow me."

They didn't have to follow for long. Bucky smelled what Steve heard before they reached the large pipe spewing grey water into a swollen stream. It smelt like Dernier on a plane, and it didn't _look_ much better.

"This must be part of the waste extraction system," said Steve. "We might be able to get in through here."

"A sewer." Dugan's flat tone and deadpan stare said it all. "You want us to crawl through a sewer."

Bucky eyed the pipe. Its mouth was covered only by a flimsy metal mesh that gave way easily to Steve's well-placed kick. Probably designed to keep animals out, more than people. Even for Dernier, the smallest of their group, it would be a tight fit. He didn't relish the idea of crawling through there… not at all.

"The ground… is warm," said Dernier. Bucky almost gagged when the guy stuck his hand into the stream of grey water gushing out from the pipe. "Water is warm, too."

"Y'know," said Jones, "I bet this isn't just sewer waste. They're probably taking the water further upstream and using it to cool whatever machinery they have in that facility. That could be why it's coming out warm… and grey."

"Better grey than yellow," Dugan said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"I have a plan," Steve announced happily. _Far_ too happily. "Dugan, Dernier, Jones, you'll come with me. We'll take this pipe and see if we can get into the facility this way. If they really are using water to cool their machinery, there must be access to it. Once there, Dernier and I will set the explosives. Meanwhile, Dugan and Jones will sneak into the yard and find a vehicle to commandeer. Once we blow up the machinery, it should draw most of the guard, and the two of you can use the chance to drive out of here. We're going to need some form of transportation to make it back to Ottange. Bucky, you stay with Antje and keep watch on the road. We don't want unwelcome guests crashing our party."

Babysitting duty? _Again_? Was Steve purposely trying to keep him out of danger? Didn't his best friend trust him in close combat? Was he still worried Bucky might go off the rails?

"Can I have a moment with you? In private?" he asked. Steve nodded, and followed him a short distance away from the rest of the group. "Why've I gotta be the one to stay out here?" he demanded. "Jones or Dugan could keep an eye on Antje just as well as me."

"I know," Steve said, his tone one of patience. "But if something happens out here, I need somebody who can make snap decisions and deal with whatever might arise. You have more experience than Jones and Dugan."

"Maybe, but you kept me outta the last mission, too."

Steve sighed and stepped forward to lay a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "You're our sharp-shooter, Buck. It's what you're good at. And it means that a lot of the time, you're going to be further from the action than the rest of us. If you don't wanna be our sharp-shooter, then I'll accept that, and ask one of the others to train with the SSR-rifle. But it's not what I need. It's not what the _team_ needs. And I think your skills would be wasted."

"That's not what I'm saying. It's just that, if you need me to be your guy on point, I can do it. You can count on me in a fight."

"I know. And there may be missions in which I _do_ need you on point, or fighting beside me. But this isn't one of those missions, and for this one, I need you to protect Antje and make sure our exit route stays clear. This is what we trained for, remember? All those scenarios in Coventry?"

Steve's explanation left Bucky feeling like an idiot. A paranoid idiot. Of course Steve didn't doubt him. Krausberg was… well, it was in the past. A slowly fading nightmare. Sure, dreams of that place still haunted his sleep, but the worst of it was over.

"Okay, I'll look after Antje _and_ the road," he relented.

"Good. We're counting on you. Now, let's finalise this plan and get moving. I wanna be out of here before dawn."

Back at the group, Dernier had just finished wrapping his explosives in plastic, to protect them from water damage while crawling through the pipe. "Good to go," he announced. He patted his pockets for a moment, then brought out a packet of smokes, which he handed over to Bucky. "Not enough plastic. You take care of these. Protect with own life."

"Once we're finished setting the explosives," Steve said, "Dernier and I will retreat back through the sewer pipes and exit here, then make our way to the road where Bucky and Antje will be waiting for us. As soon we arrive, we'll blow the explosives, creating a diversion for you two," he nodded at Dugan and Jones, "to grab a vehicle, drive straight out the main gate, and pick us up. Then we'll head back to Ottange, collect Falsworth, Morita and Ruben, and drive to our new extraction co-ordinates."

"And then home, for a bath," said Dugan. He gave the grey water a contemptuous glance. "A long, hot bath."

"Let's get to it," said Steve. "And be careful, all of you. I'm making a new team rule: nobody's allowed to go home in a casket. So watch each others' backs, okay?"

The whole team saluted. They might have their occasional disagreements, but this was one rule they could all get behind.

* * *

Author's Note: Happy New Year to all my friends and readers here! :) You may have noticed I've been gone for a few months, and I apologise for my extended absence. After writing Fanfic for over five years straight, plus a lot of other stuff in between the Fanfic, I was starting to get writer's fatigue — especially with pressures of my new job heaped on top. So, I decided to take an unannounced break until the New Year, to re-prioritise and recharge my batteries.

After 3 months of doing no writing at all, I feel refreshed and re-invigorated. I'll still be updating this story on an adhoc basis, but I now have a new drive to keep writing it, where before I was hitting creative walls that sapped at my willpower. And I can see more clearly how all the chapter I've outlined will fit together and flow into each other — hooray for clarity!

If you've been following my Voltron story, you'll notice it's now gone. I wasn't happy with it. In a rush to get it all published before the end of the series, I wrote something that was sub-standard (and due to my absence, didn't get all the chapters out before the show ended anyway). On reflection, I realise it needs to be told in a different way, so one day I'll rework it, adding in extra content to make it a more fleshed-out and complete piece. For now, I'm prioritising this story, because there is still so much left for Bucky, Steve and the Commandos.

Thanks for reading, and here's to a productive and happy 2019 for all of us.

P.S. Remember how in Chapter 100, Steve asked Stark if his car's interior was walnut? Well, this was how he knew...


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